When the Lion Runs
On indentations of the night
The Lion would rise like a river
Meandering in shuddering heights
A phantom cognizant to squander
Astray like a defunct vagabond
He escapes the ghosts of his incarnation
Whet, morbidly, like a diamond
And his Moon, the warden of incarceration
In a cross road the Lion and his Moon
Had fumbled in sight in a flounder
In the instance, the ghosts had swooned
Over the cobwebs of their antechamber
The Lion cajoled for his submission
Enthralled by the ecstasy of lunatic spell,
Whilst the Moon finagled his recuperation
Grazing the gaunt bronze citadel
Like a retroactive motion picture
He found himself retracting in defense
Petrified of the unfurling fissure
To the forest he desolately traversed
He ran away, and so did the ale,
With no reason at hand, like a real wanderer
Though he can never outrun his tail
Running and running only to falter
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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