Who's The Lion?

I opened up my cabinet today and there was a picture of a lion.
The lions paws moved slowly off the page, so gracefully and terribly.
Like wind, it was slightly invisible, and incredibly powerful.
It roared. (roar!)
It was so quiet the whole time, except when the panes shook in their skirts.
I wanted it all to rain and come crashing in- however, isn't that scary?
I wouldn't know. I want to know?
I know pieces would fall where I wish they wouldn't, and I would have a few scars.
But that lion... He ate me. Or I ate him. He was on the butter dish.
I pet his main, oh his main.
I wanted to dance with him, someone told me "Don't!" because his claws are sharp.
But maybe I just wanted to feel something. Some vein of passion.
I think I pushed that lion, I pushed him in that spot of his bone where he didn't want it.
But he didn't pounce- he didn't scream or yell or bite. Instead he went inside himself where I can't hear him think.
Though I can hear his thoughts through that look in his eyes. As they dart back and forth. To and fro.
I guess there is still time for him to pounce, not in a playful way but in a way that once he leaves that butter dish, he won't go back.
I did that! I made him leave. I made him jump.
I can't put it past him however- we entered that cabinet together.
So young!
But I will never really be old, and I will never really be tame.
My main is wild and my heart is rampant, or rancid.