The lion is king, the earth is tithe. There’s a problem with poetry, nothing but rhymes. He has a mane full of gold, chasing birds that are in the silver lining of the clouds.
The lion chases, he pounces on fear. King of the land, the earth is his maiden. Fueling his strength, claiming his years, undoubtedly the center of suicides each year. Stuck on the ground, there is prey. Crawling and hiding, praying for hope of life, but flesh is weak and the prey, meek. No chance for life, although hope remains, because the earth has sacrificed itself for the world of the lion’s mane.
There are pretty little birds, they can still fly away. Blinded, backdoors, using wings to proclaim youthful flight. Those who can fly, fly away, shaking the fear of the king’s powerful pride.
Without the tithe, without demise, art vanishes into less than light.
Earth to eh, death is my life.
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