The Lioness

The Lioness gives a tortured roar
Her lust is dangerous to deny
She bats her tail, but bears her claws
from the ache that boils between her thighs

She stalks from here to there and back
In penned desire’s unrelenting cage
Burning for the cooling balm
That soothes the pangs that turn to rage

Delirious pleasure, delirious rage
He knows there is no other choice,
when she pants in painful wanting
With that cracking in her voice

Her scruff is bristling, her back is bent
In heat for love or war
The lion now will have no rest
Until she purrs or roars

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© 2017 Will Aaton, All Rights Reserved

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