Posted in 2016, poetry, Writing

The Tiger

She runs through the jungle in a coat of black and orange.

Her hair flows gracefully behind her as she bounds after her prey.

In one swift motion she leaps through the air.

Her teeth pierce skin,

she licks the blood from her lips as she feasts,

her teeth ripping off large chunks of flesh.

Her prey is dead.

She is not.

Her prey has died for her

even though it never realized that.

When she is done nothing but blood and bones remain.

She leaves it there to become food for the trees

and climbs up onto a branch.

Her large head rests on her paws.

She is balanced on a thick branch,

her legs hang down limply.

She is content.

After letting out a great yawn she closes her eyes,

no one dares wake her.

She is the true queen of the jungle,

there is no one who stands in her way.

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