That lion there,
the one with splotchy, mangy hair
who lies in shade far from his lair
and pants last labored breaths of air —
He once was bold and fierce and strong
and where he walked the weary throng
of meaty prey gave way and long they
watched lest he charge their way.
He once was young, a cub just born
who clung to mother’s teats and wore no
caution nor no wisdom yet —
essentials that would help him get to lionhood.
And if he could, that lion there
would soon return to those times where
his strength and youth were fresh and fair
and he could do whatever he would do.
Copyright © L. Stewart Marsden, 25 March, 2014
More poetry at www.skipmars.com