Sleeping Tigers

Scattered influence
without wavering doubt
collected moments of beauty
developing like dark rooms and optical camera lenses
zooming in and out of focus

Frame the perfect photograph
with your hands in the shape of a heart

In this ivory jungle there are shadows cast by dying orange light. Many of us will not live to see the next orange-yellow moon. They will cut us down like dying oaks in yards of rich family homes. The liability is too high to let it fall naturally. Honey, think of the kids. Think of the children. They dance around the tree and hug it like it is a living breathing creature, with human lungs, filtering their little gasps of breath against the harsh toxic atmosphere, with cyanide dripping from the pores of dead flowers. The orange glow casts its jungle-shadow against the back of a sleeping tiger. She is provocateur; a protector of her cubs, here in her resting state, a state of natural dormant power… a fuse to be lit. If provoked she would devour any accidental wandering man without a moment’s hesitation. Must protect, at all costs.

Sleeping tigers in her dreams. Dancing on top of lily pads on mirror ponds. The courtyard feels clear of hostility in this simulated Autumn breeze.

Moments of beauty collected and store like short-term memory time capsules.
We recognize the best moments for their clarity and direction.

Sleep problems are great for writing, my sleeping delicate tiger, I hope I haven’t venture onto your land of no returning, your children miss you and you will prevent their harm with your stripes, horizontal, echoing ideas of orange and white silhouettes, jungle ferns alone in provocative poise.

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