LIONS - by Aidan Roberts

Life begins with tiny cells; drifting, wheeling and busying themselves, aeon past aeon, born perfect.

Things require specific alignment; wondrous creatures all, tiny and vast monsters of red and white blood cells. That endless thirst.

The lion comes down, rhythmic velvet twisting and snapping, down on the jugular.
She does not think of blood nor greed. Only her children, who one day will live by her stamp, ceaselessly repeating itself.

She is no longer flesh, bone or breath - but the very dust on which she spat, bled and created them.

There is no reflection of her in their eyes. They see galaxies of blue; and if they stare at the stars, it is not to make patterns in them, to think beyond their own purpose.

The little cubs know, and their mother in her vacant wisdom, that endlessness of the kill, and how it lives within them, becomes whole.

The sense of past and present is the strength of this one. I love it.

I fucking love this one. I don't really know what else to say. I love it.