The Lion's Love

Wherefore you speak so grandeur, how I yearn to hear you bellissimo, my love, the pearl of my oyster world; how chivalrous you are, amor: Small bestiola that scampers my gardens between the fungi and frugal floral. Indubitably mi diablito you speak soundly, sugar pie that is evermore warm with your embrace. When you greet me those vocal tunes glistening with yellow, my alluring sunflower. And to me your poupée you whisper, ¨Wo ai ni.¨ as I the scrittore of this dancing poem solemnly wishes for you to be nearer. Like michetta your symphonies mend me to dough, healed and scorned neatly, folded by your love, and forevermore I wish to be yours again, wherefore art thou that sings from my woods?

Your mysticism is like a knife, the rose blood that comes from my heart before I lie down with a dying breath: You, that sharp cold fang that pierced my body, death. Your beauty is evermore, your words that proclaim love for my flesh instead of who I was, who I used to be. How I wrote for you my parting will, and on the porch facing my woods I held a gun, waiting for you to peer out with two beady eyes at me, your prey. Lacking in care for what you consume, you take with you vegetation: deer, oxen, mankind, like a thick blanket of black fog you put me to rest, I am like a doll to you, a plaything that you cannot throw away. When I look to your eyes all I see staring back at me is two orbs of light in the thicket of the green, prowling in that lower grass with a swaying tail to disrupt the tranquility of my home: You, the mountain lion that comes for my soul.