The Blackest Cat in the Longest Night
That twenty-first, that longest night, much darker than before
I dragged my sorry soul up from the bench and through the door
‘Cross the gutters I did step, my footing slick and icy.
When something tried to trip me up! I stared; what did my eyes see?
A cat! – the cat, the blackest cat, a rat-tail in its snapper
Two em’rald gems, dual lambent slits, the markings of a trapper
So black this cat presented that it would not be a tall
Story to confess to you it was not there at all.
The direst cat, the dirty cat, and if I set my eyes
On another like it, that would be a great surprise.
It was not there; that horror-cat, that Schrödinger’s monstrosity
Living and not-living – turning cheerfulness to paucity.
All thoughts of Yuletide happiness did flee before its claws
I knew myself a quarry, captured fast among its jaws
Yet even now I cannot think that shadow-cat was real
Aside from the bleak terror and dismay it made me feel
Desire I not, to see that cat, nor feel that way again
Should I make it through to Christmas Day, or to year’s end
That longest night, that blackest night, the season’s perigee
And its malignant death-cat dwelleth in my memory.
- This reply was modified 2 years, 9 months ago by Jonathan.