The Tiger Pacing

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The tiger, pacing back and forth,

wears down tracks in soil

beneath its pensive paws


Who is truly the prisoner—

the beast in this simulated wild,

confined by barbed edges,

or the onlooker wandering an infinite expanse,

indelible grooves in her mind

carved by relentless rumination—


until thought itself becomes a beast:


The king of the jungle,

crown inked in bold black strokes,

abased to a spectacle,

a harlequin to behold


Does taming these thoughts mean

snuffing out their majesty,

or making them kneel before the king—

that testy, tempestuous thing?


And yet,

when the cloak of darkness descends,

would the tiger’s amber eyes

gleam as a North Star,

illuminating the way to

truth beyond these barbed horizons?





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