He Roars

He roars 
for once he was a cub--
loved, disciplined, and innocent.
He was his sire's shadow,
so quiet not even the Great Cats heard him.
His curiosity was only slightly less than later,
and caused much hilarity to his delight.
His heart was full and trusting,
unlike that later heart now hardened by experience.
His simple appeal brought friends to him,
though later those friends ran from his fearsome visage.

He roars
for once he was a warrior--
titled, honored, and blooded.
He stood, the greatest of his kind,
allowed the dignity of two legs.
His claws were like piano wire,
slipping into his enemy's flesh.
His fangs sank into his prey's throat,
drawing forth a well of living liquid.
His saber flew with blinding speed,
too fast to be seen by even his feline eyes.

He roars
for now he is an Old Cat--
tired, decrepit, and forced to suicide.
He stoops often to all fours,
his body too weak to hold himself upright.
His pride is gone,
taken with his curiosity.
His senses are not so keen;
often he must look at things a third time to see them.
His love of life is fast fading
with his mate's soul.

He roars
for everything is changed.
He roars
for all that he has lost.
He roars 
for he is old and ready to die
He roars--
and is no more.