That prideless lion with the severed mane

Beat his smashed–up paws into the earth,

But his mangled face and

Blood–soaked fur

Stayed numb.

He dug his teeth into his cold, sick flesh,

All trapped in his throat,

Dry, hollow lungs —

No return

No return

No return from drowning.

Bare desert sand,

Reach out a hand

So bloody.

If he bites the hand that feeds him,

Maybe he does not wish to be fed.

He begs to be starved, for dread

Is the way of his living, and pain

Is the drug of his choosing,

And he cannot stop.