The lioness


Your passion vessels are lying torn.
Her leaking blade like a tongue licking on your wrists.
A taste not bitter anymore like tears but so, so sweet.
Her eyes are filled with your blood.
She dares not to close them.
Not letting your severed body and rags out of her sight.

You were not supposed to have a chance.
At first she thrashed your heart.
Not by a mere wound but by carefully planed betrayal.
Your heart was so cunningly manipulated.
Ha ha ha, so foolishly filled with kind and loving images.
All the emotion you could muster up was gathered in that muscle.
Every kind memory, from childhood up, untill this moment saved, recollected,
and with one enraged strike. . . your heart was removed.
The chest slit open and all of the heart spooned out.

There is not a more fearsome creature as 'The lioness'.
Is it not she who does the hunting for all the pack?

I observe her faint amusemed smile.
For a moment even she was surprised with the ease of her bounty
Unaware you had lowered away your guard completely
You were breathing and your blood was warm . . .
But her hunger will not pass this feasting.
Slaughter has come so very fast your surprise is now sustained.
As expression for your mask of death.
Big chunks of blood run flesh are being scattered around her.
Your soul filled with passion and courage is being transferred onto her.
For she has been the Victor, Victress,
Victimiser of the broken carcass that used to bear your name.

Regretfully I might be the last one to answer to it.
It is was our curse and pride to bear that name.
Our ending was walking up to us, casual as if she is a friend about to shake our hand.
We find the lioness to be more of a friend then we ever thought possible.

Her instinct proves to be a beacon.
The slight shivering of her senses registering prey are like the spreading of pheromones that draw us like butterflies over miles to sit on the petals of that rare flower.
Her chemistry is directly interacting with ours disturbing the balance
that seemed so naturally making us feel lost and , oh irony, making us think she is home. Is she? Why would not yours and my life be fulfilled by her lips nipping our warm gulping source of life from the fierce wounds she inflicted?
Is not life a passing on of the token?

Beware of the paws of the lioness my friends.
Be warned of this golden furred cat of death.
She is, I admit, overwhelming in her presence of both beauty and strength. That is where the terror lies.
Watch her standing peacefully, gently lapping cool water from the sheltered drinking place
but her lips leak unnoticed fresh drops of blood upon the water surface.
It is the blood of a freshly slain heart. This heart, moments ago beating with passion,
was ripped out with just one furious blow of her mighty paw.
A fury resulting from thirst.
A hunger to taste that special mixture of spices hidden in a passionate heart,
to feel that passion throbbing between the fierce jaws leaking away in that sweet red intoxicating fluid.
It is said our soul roams there, just to catch the last breath out.
We need to pay heed when the beasts dark eyes are drifting away from the cool water again.
It is seeking new prey.
A new heart to rip out. A new soul to set free and give its three days of the lion to rise again.
Is your heart still yours?
Or is it already beating to be the next feast of the lioness?

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