A tiger drifts between realms,
neither fully of the jungle nor apart from it,
its body stretched long like a whispered memory across a wall of dripping green.

Stripes hang in vertical suspension,
as if gravity itself has been rewritten,
dissolving the predator into the chaos of leaves and shadow.

The forest breathes around it—lush, relentless, and watchful,
while the tiger’s gaze cuts through the veil,
patient and knowing.

It is motion without movement,
power without noise,
a ghost of muscle and hunger waiting for the moment to collapse from dream into flesh.

Here, the boundaries blur,
beast into foliage,
time into stillness—until the tiger is not seen,
but felt, as the jungle’s own heartbeat.