The Battle of Leo

It is the beginning of the end of a day.
The jungle has been shredded by torrents of sleet
permeating the inner cracks of foliage with skeletal fingers
tickling the surge of survival in face of the ghost of death.

Endless, boundless mountains of wind
strain the salt from tears of helpless victims.
And those yet alive
yearn for their leader and plead for sanity.

With main unkempt from tassels with death
yet still intact and proud that this is so,
he continues to stalk, disguised in courage, glorified in loyalty,
and sustained with a thirst too great to allow death.

Hoisting his pride to pendulum maximum,
it shields his weak soul as the battle with death ensues.
"Why was I chosen as King?" cries he
In a voice that booms in beats of laughter, hysteria, irony.
Yet still, he beats out the ceaseless march
cthrough his devastated jungle
protecting the young, the innocent and the foolish.

Nature's explosive demonstration of power retreats.
Molested but intact, his jungle still survives.
And the king, yet unusurped of his kingliness,
untangles his mane, caresses the injured, and reflects
on this rendezvous with himself.

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