The Old Lion

And the grass is tall, so much so as he lays in wait for you. Metaphors now are but birds fat and juicy. That can not be caught. His mane so long now it trips him up as he walks. And you bring him parts of each bloody kill. Remembering, thus it was such as he returned, thinking for you. A few years earlier, and that hyenas ugly bone crushing laugh. You excavated. Laying down beside him, full each night. The moon is high and full as he gets older, it she helps. Entering sleep with out all that fuss, she is cooler. Far is each day and it's burning hot sun, shining down. Deep in sleep, she gets back up and melts into some tall golden grass.