In House No. 8 He Contemplates

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,

not beyond.


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.


11.41 pm

12th June 2016

In House No. 8 He Contemplates

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