In the jungles
the lion roars his poems.
I am lost in the footpaths
that lead to his lair.
Primevil conflicts exist
in this dark place.
I know his poetry
contains my death.
Yet still I do not fear him
this is his domain.
Where the law is singular
and finite.
it is the keen edge
of the food chain.
we are not  different
the lion and I.
We are both
reciting our mantra
of **** or be killed.
of draw first blood
I see him in the shadows
huge his eyes red with menace.
He is snarling my poem
my death wish.
The poem he speaks
is beautiful.
It talks of time and history
of structure and balance.
I am transfixed
by his eloquence.
I raise my gun to place
the magnificent beast
within my sights.
Just one finger
I can remove this animal
from the world.
But he is more than I am
more worthy of survival
Purer of spirit and purpose.
The weapon points to ground
and instead I listen
to my final poem