The lionness sits firmly
Atop the roof of her emotions
Neither growling, purring, roaring
Mere observing
The commotion

She feels before she thinks it
Knowing boils are ripe
For lancing
Sat provocatively
Though her eyes
Are keenly dancing.

The lionness, distracted
Fails to see
The wooden arrow
Amidst the trees
Which lay resplendent
Fired from a bow of marrow
Scenting food
On the horizon
She purrs in abstract
Forgetting all about
The lancing
About the pain
That lies awaiting…

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