From the corners of my eyes, I see him <br />The White Lion. <br />Behind me, hunched over <br />exhaling smoky puffs frigid <br />as the top of Kilimanjaro. <br /> <br />The White Lion, as a child, <br />I remember <br />In my sleep, I see him <br />scratching the door, wanting to get in <br />but open the door, I would not. <br /> <br />Its many changes, time has wielded <br />but his appetite, time has not waned. <br />The door he has forced open <br />and now lays in wait. <br />Ripe for the race is the prey. <br /> <br />Freezing fear <br />immobilizes me on this hard stool <br />where I stoop <br />while he waits, stirring not. <br /> <br />My fear is the White Lion’s delight <br />My pain, his ecstasy <br />My discomfort, his purpose. <br /> <br />How long can the hunter wait <br />for the thrill of the game? <br />The White Lion is ready for this prey.<br /><br />Birgitta Heikka<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-white-lion-2/
