The Lion

You are not a weeping, finite man.

You are a Lion,

in un-ending gold,

and you do not roar

because my mind is broken.

 

Perhaps  you love me because

I am a damaged vessel.

Perhaps you love me because you love me.

However it is, you are my strong, warm, and lovely one.

 

You make love to my soul,

and your tongue becomes a moonlit lake

that washes me of sin.

It promises renewal, slow breathing, and mental wholeness.

I hold you and sigh and weep the story of my life,

and you say, “Be calm.”

 

I have no attacks when you hold me.

I do not panic, grow numb, or wish to die.

You embody the sun when you kiss me,

and give life to my bones.

Your hair is constantly in my face,

and it hides me from myself.

 

When we wake, it is morning,

and my mind is healed.

I feel joy and pain, and I feel them together.

I do not fear to live bitter-sweetly.

Then you wake,

and you are smaller, and somehow larger.

And you are not a lion but God.


Author Notes

10 Comments for “The Lion”

Raymond Tobaygo

says:

Good afternoon, Grace

I enjoyed the poem. If my take is correct, one seeks solace and comfort from life’s mental torments of doubt, depression and anxiety. Well done.

Take care and stay safe,

Ray

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