The stallion whinnies as he views the proud
mane of the son who shares his chestnut coat;
the colt snorts, paws the ground too near the crowd
of mares and risks his sire's teeth at his throat.
The young male lion skirts his former pride,
grows lean and hungry, moves in on the old
as vultures circle. Later, jackals glide
towards the elder's carcass, scarcely cold.
All mammals need to eat and take a mate,
will fight to do so till their dying breath.
Though man builds cities, it remains his fate
to feed his appetites until his death.
The plains are graveyards where bleached heaps of bones
blur like the names man carves on pointless stones.
British born Anna Evans now resides in New Jersey where she is raising two daughters, a dog and a hamster. She has been rejected by numerous online and small literary journals and even accepted by a few, including The Formalist, The Lyric, Raintown Review, The Evansville Review, The Edge City Review and Exit 13. She occasionally dreams in Iambic Pentameter.
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