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 © | Year Posted 2024

Poem

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Xiang Avatar
March 29, 2024 at 11:30 PM
I love the introductory imagery of red-leaf candles in a green room. Feels very post-apocalyptic. Poets, like you, are not ground starers with fresh meat in their nap sack. Bravo.
Swan Avatar
March 30, 2024 at 3:39 AM
Thanks Triny. You made me smile. I'm probably a tree/sky starer so I have to be careful of bumping into things -and true, no fresh meat for the lions.
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