The Humble Lion

[Pilgrim]

Lying on his bed of blood
the humble lion melts into his death
like a slow, patient sunset. Humble,
then gone.

Primal machine switched on by some playful god,
it thrashed at man and man in his pomposity
branded it savage and pulled a trigger.

Hemingway's in Heaven with animal pelts
lining his Elysium cot.
How much more poetic would his death have been
if a lion had ripped his head off?

Hello, Heslopian.

May I say that I admire the sentiment of your poem. However, I found a couple of points of contention.

Firstly, I simply cannot equate humility with a lion, even in death; secondly, the same reaction applies to sunsets. I imagine ‘magnificent’ in the former, and ‘glorious’ in the latter. You may well think such alternatives trite – but there you are.

I think your last line is just right. It’s what lions do, isn’t it?

Regards,

Pilgrim.