The choice of the lion,
is the breath lasting
another set of shine.

So he breathes deep,
and chooses to dispose
and keep, the strong and weak.

Knees spring and eyes
dance as his stride takes
nothing watered in answer.

Eventually his teeth sink in,
to another sought victim. Blood
lifts up beats of broken hope.

The rain will wash away
the remants, the bones and
breadth of the deceased.

Like baptizing the dead,
the once avid antelope
enfolds into shreds and holes.

I take hold with the lion,
and his patron's lull of
a short life lived alone.

I take up the burden
of the man who's dragging
dreams and starving their sleep.

I dismanlte and overthrow
anything a soul would know.
I've sold short to dark sorrow.

Blame superlatives of love,
equivocal yet engrossing.
Alone, Alone, Alone. Truth be told.

All my poems rhyme with
broken. Omens they speak,
and redemption they seek.

Defiling shrouds of bone.
I am akin to thrashing time's
strangle over my nomadic home.

Special Specific Speculate.
S rhymes with hiss, the serpent's
cursed, I'm blessed with his venom.

Green, blues and Fire. Bright dire
and incessant pain that soothes.
My mind, so known, lingers swollen.

With malice and inequities.
Big words you accuse I stole.
No, it's not that simple.

I take nothing that isn't
under my abilities to render
my own. My own, my soul.

Let it dissolve cynical one.
I've lavished in solemn loathing,
and granted the air I decompose.

Words are arbitrary. My
discretion and yours are bleek,
like the waterhole under the jungle's feet.

Rain falls and mountains soar,
yet I am here obliged to cry
among dunes of a divulge.

Of kings I used to spence
and thrive spoons of gold.
Sapphires like hands of my control.

Sure, raising a voice
and swearing a dissonace
of passion sewn enclosed.

I believe in ancient words
spoken once and soley
to those whom he knew he'd behold.

On the scriptures we now know
as the only reference to how we
should keep covenants bestowed.

Love is fiction, I am convinced
Ice brings scars of irrevocable sanction.
Fire deceives and illuminates indecision.

I've run out of thoughts, ideas, and composure.
This ground I thread into order means as much
to me as the sinner's wicked ways and his

Vigilance to die among salty, malevolent
Promises that aren't made to keep.
Promises don't sing, they demean
and slit silently to bloodless thrones.