The pride
New red-leaf candles glow in a green room
jungle cathedral; buttress-rooted forest-columns climb
to a sun-starred sky in jig-saw pieces;
wings stretch feathers over gravity;
voices whisper, ‘Beware. Lions prowl.’
Smooth granite-faced walls build shadow-spaces,
city-blocks; black-suited women, men stride out,
ground-starers, pacing
beside the sign: ‘Do not feed lions’.
Copyright © Jeanette Swan | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment