John Milton, in his apology, or his defense, of Paradise Lost, explained that while rhyme is beautiful, it can at times be very restricting. I fully agree with him on that. I often use ryhme for my poems, but at other times, such as this one, I refrain an either use a structure, or simply write from my heart.
Behind the Lion's Eyes
With tender tread, and terrible, I walk the endless slope.
With trembling body and bleeding heart, I climb under his gaze.
Look up: I see a mane, a halo of glory like angel's songs around me,
A face feline, but outshining even Paul's most worthy praise.
Then I looked—I dared not to it and dare not do otherwise—
Into his eyes
Golden, nebulous, star-filled and beautiful.
Here came all the depths of beauty I ever longed for.
Here came every song that stirred my heart-cords from childhood.
Once I saw myself and wept, saw my life, and then I saw his silver-red blood
Wash it all away, and I saw naught but him again.
I could gaze forever, but then I saw behind them, something terrible, something
And then it falls away!
It is no more, this mask of cat-like grace; I see instead what no one ought to see.
Only his mercy saved me from being blown away.
Holiness like a star erupting smote my spirit to the core,
Shook me until I was unmade.
Had I known such pain existed I would have run from my cradle to embrace it!
And then I realized all my life I had been looking into the lion's eyes,
Looking and searching from this very thing, this very holiness I now fall down before.
And like a veil those eyes opened, calling me in, calling me surely.
I went with gladness. I went with awe and trembling.
I went behind the Lion's Eyes.
I do not know who is speaking in this poem. It could be Tirian, it could be myself, I don't know. I had in mind a man while writing it, so that really rules me out. I also had in mind At the Back of the North Wind, especially for that last phrase "I went behind the Lion's Eyes." I've disected poems before in literature class, and I always felt I was doing a disservice to the long-dead author, so I won't do it to myself now; I'll let the reader decide the details behind the poem.