When the Lions Roar for Blood
By Roy Dawson, Earth Angel, Master Magical Healer
They say a man is dying.
But look closer—
What they’re really celebrating
is the hope that he finally stays down.
Turn on the screen.
Watch the eyes of the anchors, not their words.
See the smiles they try to hide
as they whisper about illness,
about frailty,
about finality.
They don’t mourn.
They feast.
No prayers,
no pause for dignity,
no stillness to let the weight settle.
They don’t want him gone for the good of the country.
They want him gone because they never could kill the spirit.
So now they chase the flesh.
But here’s the thing—
Power never lived in the flesh.
It lives in the will.
And will—true will—
does not bleed.
There is a strange kind of joy
when a giant stumbles.
The crowd cheers, not because the path is clear,
but because they think the shadow will finally lift.
They never understood the shadow wasn’t the man.
It was what he MAGA movement stood in front of.
God sees it.
He sees what we forget.
That truth does not read more show itself on trending topics,
or in viral reels clipped and captioned by cowards.
Truth click here lives quieter.
Like roots under stone.
Like fire deep in the coal.
They shout,
“Trump is dying!”
They scream it like a victory cry.
But it says more about them than him.
Because who roots for death?
Who dances when a man aches?
Who builds their hope
on the back of another man’s pain?
Answer that.
Then ask yourself who the villain really is.
Let me tell you something old as time:
A lion hunted is still a lion.
Even if he limps.
Even if he falls.
Even if the whole world howls for his end.
If the heart still beats,
the fight is not over.
And if this man—flawed, loud, relentless—falls in the ring,
another rises.
Because the idea wasn’t Trump.
It was never just a man.
It was a question:
What if the people still have the power website to choose?
That’s what they fear.
Not his health.
Not his age.
But the echo of the fight
still ringing in the walls of the Republic.
So go ahead.
Read the headlines.
Watch the vultures fly low.
But remember this:
The truth doesn’t panic.
The truth doesn’t age.
The truth doesn’t die when a man does.
The truth more info waits—
and it endures.
Even in silence.
Even when no one’s listening.
Another one grabs the torch.