03-04-2008, 12:26 PM
((This is a persona poem written in the perspective of a cat.))
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I stretch my slender arms and legs in the warm golden tangles of thread winding themselves through my ginger fur.
I arise from my domain of brightly colored, strangely shaped scraps of cloth.
My claws scrap against the glossy brown surface on which I stumble towards the sky-high chamber doors.
There she is,
she is at the darkly sinister beast with her sword in hand.
The smell of succulently sweet meat wafts through the air.
She quickly defeats the monster and rescues her breakfast.
And her comes mine, laden in a large round bowl.
I lick my chops as she sets down the warm aroma of a mixture of all sorts of scents.
The scent is overwhelming.
I can't wait any longer,
and dive into my feast.
I like my chops in satisfaction.
And it seems that she, too, has concluded her meal.
And then she gets ready for the day.
She walks out the door,
A strange large lump slung across her shoulder.
She promises she'll be back soon, and she always is.
Now, the day has only just began.
I bound out the cat door, and into a brightly colored world.
There is a strange green food completely covering the landscape, and I eat my fill.
I scramble up the tall natural scratching posts,
marked with endeavours of my past treks.
It is high, and I am afraid to jump back down.
But I must.
I leap from my post,
and I don't know how,
but I always land on my four legs.
What's this, a scurrying rodent in the grass?
Alarmed by my jump, it tried to run for cover.
But that squirrel won't get away so easily.
I lunge at it with full power.
It darts skillfully away,
and up the tree, relishing in its win.
But next time I shall be more swift than it will ever be.
For now, it is getting late.
And she is almost home.
As she makes her way down the path I scurry back into my castle,
and curl up in my pile of silk and wool and cotton.
What a wonderful feeling it is, to be alive.
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