The Lion Cometh (3)

in the wide savannah of my dreaming,

through the moist jungles of my years,

I yawn my stained and pointed yawn

shaking the sky with my voice,

filling the scorched air with

bloody breath.


I stretch and scratch and roll

in fractured heat and dust and mud,

my rippled spine crushing a thousand

swarming flies,

my tangled mane sweeping hot earth

like the ragged fingers of God.


my needs are as simple as the moon;

I eat, sleep, mate and mate some more,

I leave the killing to the women,

they are so fast and sure, while I

sleep, silhouetted in a setting sun,

dreaming of bees making honey

buzzingly inside of me.

This series of posts are a celebration of my astrological sun sign, Leo, in  words, images and music…


 Poem by clinock / Lion photo with thanks to

12 thoughts on “The Lion Cometh (3)

  1. “Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
    To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
    And in the calmest and most stillest night,
    With all appliances and means to boot,
    Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down!
    Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
    William Shakespeare


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