A very grey cat
sat on his lap
while whisking his fur
on his barren thighs,
His calves are well-packed
with muscles at ease,
Which will contract
when he runs with the breeze.
But tonight none his calves
contract and release,
Tonight it’s his mind
whose running on fumes,
He tried to project a welcoming morrow,
But he could not spare
an opportunistic follow.
He yelped for help in the midnight rain,
But he has drowned himself in morbid vain,
The rain could not wash what isn’t applied,
The rain could not reach the filth inside.
He pranced and pounced and jumped so high,
But what’s dead inside could never subside,
He screams atop of his vanquished lungs,
But not a peep or beat could be heard.
Attested, he now realize,
That projections are lies
for the weakened mind,
He fell for his own trap,
Knees on the doorstep of demise,
And fall he would if not for a voice,
Telling him to look at what’s in front,
He came to his senses as the brine softens
to a drizzle no more than little trickling sounds,
A very grey cat sleeps fondly on his lap
as he adjourns a useless contemplate.
12th June 2016