The lion kills for life, and life is rarely grateful. We will hold fast our fingers

clasped tight like kites were flying, like the cracks in boulders held our weight.

Do you see heart there in the thin shadows? Do you see flames in the fleeing clouds?

Will the saltwater support you or the lava entomb you where you stand?

The fragile wing and barely blinking eye of the swallow awaits your answer,

bring it to her

on a gentle breeze in the soft light of a morning sun. A seed flies with you,

another willing victim of the wind. The sand burs embed deeply in the paw

of the huntress. Will you remove it with your teeth, your neck bent and smooth

like alabaster, the jugular pulsing like a neon sign? Will you then pray for peace?

Could it be that the stars ripple with your every breath?

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019

About theminstrelscitadel

In search of courageous souls who aren't afraid to dig a little deeper and have a conversation about all manner of things. Rant, rave, debate, discuss... let's do it!
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