Carry the Line

One foot slides.
A limp.
The hand moves into the arm's crook and holds the line.
The next foot stumbles.
Hold the arm in place.
A red swatch moves in and out of view.
The lion in winter looks to the summer winds to carry the scent and rage.
Two hearts, one damaged, move through an antiseptic wilderness.
"It's not so bad," the old lion tells the wind as he surveys the landscape.
Burnt flesh and tattered dreams litter the floor as the lion stumbles.
The foot slides again.
The lion seizes his mortality and attempts to assert his position with a roar,
but the wind cannot keep holding the lion and brings him home.
"It's not so bad," the lion weeps as his eyes slide back.
The wind can only watch.