How wretched I am

How much more, do I love the worn tiger

with his patchy coat, and Siberian Scars

I don’t have self-sympathy

it makes me

prey

and less, of a self-righteous predator

Majesty—

is shining off my coat

while I look into the mirror,

unable to prove my worth

my claws, rubbed across rocks

a toothless wild cat

smiling

without fangs

failure, must be known and honed

because my heart pumps for life

even, and most especially, when confronted with death

nature, doesn’t have any sympathy

and the worn tiger, doesn’t want any

he plods along

consumed, by his own consumption

amber eyes

to be fossilized, black flies

the warm abundant life, never known, in the mountains of Siberia

exile, in loneliness

in the greatness that can only be felt like a sin

scoffers and mockers can be heard on the wind

the worn tiger, doesn’t mind

their games, don’t interest him

it is the brutal wish for reality

that forces him above the snowline

Even if, he would obey,

curling-up, outside common houses, without character

he would only be a house cat

a harmless king, without power

walked around the neighborhood, on a leash.

Better to be unfriendly,

unforgiving,

unable to live, if not, in the right way

to die by his own law,

the law of his fathers

Sunsets, of pink fire

before, his last roar

the wolves howling, in the lowlands

while nature prepares

her final course

Worn, but still a tiger

remembered, and forgotten

by men.