The Wounded Lion

The wounded lion slinks away,
No longer master of the pride.
The hunter once, now easy prey,
Stripped of power, undignified.
Beneath the withered grass he slinks,
Padding out a tortured crawl,
While high above, a vulture blinks,
Its face impassive as a wall.
The race, as always, has been run,
The loser draws a final breath.
And beaming down, the blinkered sun
Smiles smugly on a lowly death.