Kipling was wrong

​the tiger with the cripple 
foot is not the enemy.
they say he wants to
destroy the boy
unwind the sticky string of his
entrails across the jungle's 
dappled carpet then
reel them back into
his orange mouth. they say
the boy will kill the tiger instead
with some sharp ingenuity
as if by killing a tiger
a boy could still be a boy
and all cruelty would cease. 
no. in my story there is no
death and no edge
the metaphors never concluding
but if you followed them
you'd find the boy and the
tiger both moving deeper 
into the jungle where the
trees thicken like
the fingers of dreams and 
bells of consciousness
drop their clappers. 
horizon's vice seems to press
the two together:
is that boy riding tiger?
is that tiger wearing the 
face of boy? shall you follow 
and find out if it is true: 
the lies people tell about revenge
and redemption and
how they unravel the
deeper into the interstices
of the trees you wander 
until the dim stars themselves
wink and laugh at you one 
by one before snuffing themselves
on the matte of infinite space
leaving you alone in
the dark with the sound of
the tiger's breathing
and the relentless thump of your
own mind?
​
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