on the plains
Emergent is the lion from his den
Claws paused.
Like a shark on a whim
Whilst above in-flight flits angels’ wings
Butterflies commit few past sins
Control their angst on the rustling wind
Not built for flight, must revert to prayer
Not monarchs of stealth, nor frontier
Nor nuance really — no pretenses compare
To the sheer focus; wrath, and devoid of tears
Of the stalker of the plains when quarry nears
Is nuance subtle? Is focus feared?
Is the butterfly’s fall from grace so clear
Does she focus at all, or is it just her plight
For the lion refutes such reviews by type
His pride ensures his realm always remains
Takes no prisoners on a ruthless stage
Yet the butterfly is naïve to his trifling rage
If he tries, as he might, the mighty beast
Could never hunt down her insignificance
Leaves it to the rats, the grubs and the creeps
For the king has a wide realm in his keep
Should one do unto others as one might
Cling to things as the plants and the fruits
If he be on the plains or even locked in his zoo
His highness of terror finds such wonts ado
