Hiding in shadows, reaching for light,
finding solace in the half-lit hush—
a confession, maybe.
Perhaps you, with eyes like anchors,
could steer me through the fog,
to where dreams unravel at the seams,
thin veils parting with each breath.
Skyscrapers shadow the river’s slow pull,
monuments to silenced symphonies.
Progress murmurs over water’s skin,
while digital dissenters and calendar keepers
trace their days in codes, in missed connections—
a mirage of significance.
Wealth gathers, silent, unrelenting,
casting long echoes over joy, over presence—
a stretch of moments grasped but never held.
Prudent plans slip from windows like bodies,
in freefall, mistaking descent for release.
The Truth About Tigers 