Here Lies a Lion...Dead.
Inky nights sleep like dust
gathered on the mantelpiece of
my youth, my former playpen
which seemed a dream
but now is a cage
of padded spikes
and unfeeling caregivers.
The immaculate roads snake with
a purpose known
only to those who see the plans;
which wizened warlocks
have crafted in their
exceptional cranial
spaces.
You never really leave
for it merely takes you from
one place to another
while the tar snake
grows unsatisfied
crushing the little
unyielding wildflowers.
When I turned on that box
of packaged information,
all dolled up and sugared,
my soul's liver took a jolt
of emotional diabetes.
Somehow the masquerade
was a wafting smell
of dead ideas and
dying lions,
all embalmed with the garish
pink and wanton gold
of funerals.
But this was not for any human,
but a lion whose collar has begun
its deadly silk
strangulation.
