POETRY
HURT LION
i'm now a wounded lion, teetering on the thread of
life
of passion — wasted years & shattered dreams
as i inhale the smell of oppression,
my nostrils revolt, gasping for air
for life captured in metals
i am a display of beauty in this horrible garden
bearing angles of sorrow
sorrow that last
i sing to freedom
when sleep comes to me
the imprisoned lion’s roar is as
vain as the whisper of a bird
singing on the tree
weakness eats into my femur
and it sinks into a forgotten
land of thorns
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