Startled deer,

Gaze into my eyes,

Lips parted- no cry,

Eyes rounded- no fear,

Mane of golden surround,

The lioness,

Blood lapping at your lips,

Such opulent curves,

And your teeth,

The perfect capture of flesh.

Ornaments decorate

The space, bent clavicle,

Those victory prizes,

Not weapon-seized,

Nor overcome,

By claws manicured;

A conquest more pungent,

A body of delight,

Slender and stolen

Into the night.

The chase is on, my beauty,

Your heartbeat thrums,

That subtle movement,

Ears pricked

At a low breath,

And the chase is on.

Not primordial

To sight or taste,

Emotion and

Reason’s contrast;

The flesh is eager,

In balmy light turning dark,

Strange admirer of you,

Locked in an impatience,

The cage immaterial,

Battles on, despite futility.

Against the reality,

She is herself,

Mane of gold surrounding

The water-reflect,

And contemplate it,

The truth that to be captured,

Is to be kept;

To the hunt returned

Are the slit-eyes spent:

To be the captor is the same,

A fight of morals,

My prey,

Please stay

In my reflection,

Where secrets,

So little, so light,

Can line the savannah.

The End

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