lioness

a glaring piece of sunlight strikes the morning window
under the watchful eye of the lioness
she is swift this one
moving, like the wind
carving curving unpredictable patterns in coniferous clouds
she weaves
she weaves
in and out in and out

so much like the windy mythical warrior she is
impenetrable, from this discouraged archer's point of view
her body, chiseled like some mythical stone
silhoutted by apollo's veil
moves gracefully, effortlessly
through these streets of mud
not a speck of dust to be found
on that emerald toe

and there, hidden behind that brazen glare that protects the window
like some great wall of stone, the peasantry,
we lowly bugs, observe, record, memorize her every move
longing for the love that we all dream about
from time to time
longing to find an opening on the other side of the glass
a weakness
surely, there is a weakness

and there, blinded by the glaring light
the lioness, all dressed in her battle skins and
equipped with her libran sensibilities
steps forward, into the white light of the window
into the white night of the window
with her chrome cheekbones pressed high against the glass
and there, buried deeply in the eye sockets of her skull,
highlighted, illuminated by reflecting reflections for all to see,
is the weakness

the eyes of the lioness are soft and forgiving
the eyes of the lioness are warm and soothing
the eyes of the lioness are calm and relenting
the eyes of the lioness are wide and unassuming

alas, there is the weakness.

alas!! there is the weaness.