the next monday morning, the hunter enters the den,
and drags out the golden shroud of a lion made un-alive.
of gold the cloak shimmers as it floats down to the central isle,
custom permits its validation and absolution (a right of goodwill),
and so the dead travel to the mountains of old,
enters a pariah, an ambition in stone, a granite passage
emerging from the core.
to him this is everything, everything
it represents. his words evade caution, and need no protection.
his words are true, and truer than true. so be the words
of an undead few. his word is sacred, his word is cursed.
concealment evades the caution it deserves.
upon the mountain the snow lies in stasis, obfuscating
the path soon to be trodden. upon the zenith his words
were crystal, clearer than night, truer than the angels.
the lion stays dead, deader than the deadest, its cry remembered
as a fading vibration. far away, he weeps in his silence,
as he fell below, without his life golden.
what would he do except confide
in the molten truth he chose to relay,
what he believed would save a man
when he believed it would save