The Truth About Tigers

It begins quietly—an undertow beneath glass,
small tremors brushing at the borders,
a half-heard hum, a splinter of sound.

By dusk, they emerge—
a cast of jester-kings,
brittle crowns catching the last slant of light.

Faces blur in movement,
voices tilting,
stirring the stillness of quiet corners.

They spill over, leaning into the mirror’s fragile edge,
where shadows convene to listen,
or else drown in the flood of noise.

Each tongue lifts its own sharp song, heavy,
tugging at what once held fast, breaking it free—
a ripple that rises, crashes, curls back.

November dawns, and the floor sways beneath,
while charlatans dance on cracked ground,
oblivious to the low rumble threading through.

And we, quiet as candlelight,
witness the lonesome death of civil discourse,
ears pressed to the thin skin of darkness,
hoping for shape, for something solid to hold.

Written in response to Bartholomew Barker’s Visual Poetry Prompt and inspired by my essay, The Lonesome Death of Civil Discourse, which shares its title with this poem.