The King

Gentle beast, I watch you sleep in not the long fields you deserve.

Comfort you find in a grand bed of cloth, snuggled in cotton sheets.

Languid, lax and listless your mane is free to flow.

I bask in the heat of your sunny hibernation.

Dedicated to lay as dedicated to win,

yours is a healthy mass of strength.

Purring with the rise and fall breathing rhythmically.

A primal sound that yearns me to rest my curious eyes.

A calm so great to pull me to peace.

Without the king to sovereign, I am awake, but not without the memory of you.

By Johanna Vanderspool

November 21, 2009