May
The “King” of the jungle – the only title I’ve ever harnessed to bring beside my name. The dark silhouette nature of my mane brings forth the identity, which others can only crave for. However, is the identity itself worth? For years, I have satiated myself to sleep as my lioness leaves a part of her pray for me, only to ravish them in minutes.
The marks of the countless animals that have fallen before my existence initiates an illusion of pride and honour behind my name. Illusion, that’s all there is today. The days of commemorating the hunt before the nightfall are over. Over, that’s all I am today. Over.
The once golden buffed yellow coat over my brawny body, that is the pride of a lion, has lost the shine, which used to wave at the morning horizon to commence the day for the entirety of the jungle. Entirety? I falter to imagine where the “entirety” of the jungle would be at this very instance. The weakness in my mind and soul has overshadowed the triumphant embodiment of a “King.” The loosely falling skins on my body are a symbol of how far I’ve fallen. The blooming roars, which use to make animals dread my presence has now become a cry for help and love.
A King? Not anymore. I’ll be fortunate enough to just be an animal now. The terror of an entity would at least provide me with a family to share my grievances and bring back my sons, who I long for day and night. Who am I now? A king? No. A father? Failed. A lion? An animal? I wish I could be one.
