The Tiger

He noticed me and picked up a brush;

he is his canvas.

He was missing a few stripes

and wanted to fill them in.

Black streaks fly across the painting;

the strokes looked almost skin like.

He's not just orange.

Two colors in a perfect blend.

I glanced away from my art;

I wanted to admire his for as long as possible.

He seemed proud of his work,

leaving his brush behind with me.

This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Grant-Grey Porter Hawk Guda

Powerful expression! 

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