an old tiger drags himself out of the river
as i sit down on the stairs
to fancy that sunset of golden stripes,
wet and faded.
we breathe heavily.
at daybreak each blade reflects the sunrise.
smile and serenity awaken first,
sending a soft push to my chest,
”come on, now!”
i brush my hair thinking of the morning light,
tasting the cream from the sunrise
melting in my mouth
down my throat,
flowing into my stomach to
transfigure and
fill the gaps between my blood cells
with gentleness.
when i step amongst the others,
i search for it,
and the sunlight awaits for me there.
he leans over and through two layers of glass
his sun drips onto me, runs down my cheeks,
tickles.
i drink it, rub it into my skin,
i soak my hair in its sweetness
to take with me all that i can carry,
to sit down then on the stairs,
and play with it, evaporating, melting away fast.
ahh why so fast?
dejected, in sand and silt,
the tiger falls over, his sides rising and falling
to the rhythm of the weary meter inside.
quieter and quieter becomes his breath,
entirely calming down
with the last vanishing sunray.
—
hahahha. it was brought to my attention that this is horridly “phallic imagery.” well, now read the poem again and actually see, sense what i am telling you about: sunset, a wet tired tiger; now jump in time to sunrise, waking up in a sunny room, warmth of being in a good mood, searching for whoever brings sun to your life, and, finally, feel the tired end of the day, which is the old tiger himself, blended in one with the sun and the narrator. i bet your initial impression was not boring either tho 
