Black Lilies

THE POWER OF THE BEAST The spear whistles through the air and plants itself precisely: The wild beast writhes in agony, His countenance is invariably distorted, Eyes roll and froth, peppers the mouth. The spear tears savagely at his breast, And he turns- Watching his attacker Minutely, with deathly silence, Vehement intention in every lineament, Fury is labeled in his every move, The beast lunges forward And seeks immediate destruction of the Being. Reinforced by the weighty armour of hate, He hollers; The sound chills the very fluid of the veins, It filters through the farthest angle in the body, Knitting the transparent nerves. The beast is arrested temporarily- He feels the pain erode him hungrily, Whole parts of his existence are being Ravenously devoured. The drilling persistence in the head resumes, The ache is terrible, killing, He howls piteously, whimpering hideously. The icy breath of the evening wind Mocks him listlessly. And the glaring stars remain unperturbed, impassive. Slowly, he turns Weakened, nullified, ravished. He feels suppressed, His cankering joints are now irrevocable. A strange, uncheery peace circumnavigates, Lubricating the yawning jungle. He sighs desperately, Aware of the imminent transit. The shaggy mane reclines, The mangled chest heaves, challenging. The blood- shot eyes are dimmed And a tiny, salty sphere Splashes, Baptizing the mundane world.