The Thorne of Ash

Beneath the crown of jungle's reign, A lion roared, his might unchained. With tawny mane and thunderous stride, He ruled the wild with boundless pride. Yet in the grass, a serpent slid, Its venom sharp, its purpose hid. One bite, one sting, the king brought low, His strength dissolved in poison’s flow. “I am the lord,” he gasped in pain, “The jungle bows to my domain. Yet here I lie, by fang undone, A king, a fool, my race is run.” So too the man, who builds his throne, Of steel and gold, on earth’s broad bone. He carves his name, he claims the skies, But death’s soft whisper never lies. No crown can stay the fleeting breath, No power outruns the hand of death. The snake, the bite, the final call— The mighty and the meek must fall. In hubris vast, we claim control, Yet time’s the venom in the soul. Like lions, proud, we strut, we scheme, But wake to find it all a dream.