The Tiger And The Rose

The Tiger And The Rose

The tiger waits where the shadows breathe,

muscle and silence pressed into one truth.

His eyes hold storms that never speak aloud,

a hunger shaped by years of restraint.

The rose grows where no mercy lives,

red folded tight around a fragile heart.

Thorns guard every secret it keeps,

beauty sharpened by the need to survive.

The tiger knows the cost of touch,

how power can ruin what it admires.

He circles the rose with careful steps,

aware that love can bleed both ways.

The rose senses the heat of his breath,

a nearness that trembles the stem.

It does not bow or beg for safety,

it stands, knowing its worth.

Strength meets beauty without conquest,

neither bends, neither breaks the ground.

The air tightens with unspoken choice,

respect hanging heavier than fear.

The tiger lowers his burning gaze,

choosing awe over the urge to claim.

The rose opens only as much as it dares,

trust unfolding petal by petal.

In that still place they remain unchanged,

wildness and grace sharing one breath.

No roar, no fall into ruin,

only balance learned the hard way.

Some stories are not made to end,

they exist to remind us how to stand.

Power does not always mean destruction,

and beauty does not need to be taken.