Poetry, sunday whirl, wordle



the looting lion roars
ever present pilot he paces politely
wearing a big bright rodeo buckle and
cowboy boots worn with years of grace
his humble humming scares me away

lost the art of visions
miss what haven’t known
the drill is always the same

in an instant he attacks for attention
fast fire bombing drill alight
fierce fracas a folly for flight

and now the master knows
assuredly he sits and stares
dignity deserts in little tiny rushes
a slight sound of terror escapes
I miss the quiet calm of cunning gain

in between a fear that breathes
a gentle breeze cradles my release
his shadow stride awakens
he licks my nerves raw

sunday whirl: wordle no 134. this lion made known his presence….