The Lioness’ Mane,
her pride, her lair.
Those matted, scattered, blitzen hair.
The Lioness’ Mane,
so proud and vain.
She comes and goes,
as if playing a game.
The Lioness’ Mane
then put to shame.
In dread, dirt and dearth
she lain.
The scattered mane- it slowly scats.
Most say it never was,
but we know what the lioness had.
The locks and curls forevermore,
tresses that nurtured lions galore.
© achillesheelpoetry, 2022
Achilles' Heel 