Black Cat
A cat has nine lives, so, they say,
but a black cat lives forever,
it's claws always sharp. Green
eyes that pierce the night like
magical green flames set afire
by witches words of darkest
incantation. Spoken, softly on
moonless nights in archaic chants
known only to druidic priestesses in
songs of mesmeric power, silhouetted
against twinkling multi colored stars. Soft
silky fur that entices, dark as mid-night on
silent paws that tip toe whithout the
sound of forlorn echoes as they
glide, so very lightly, over sacred
ground. Feline notions always creating
resounding echoes in the twilight space between
reality and the world of alternative creation,
Phantoms of life. Is
it real or just our lonely need to justify our
own feeble existence.
I for one shall never know the secrets
of the black cat.
луны, фосфорического ветра, – в черной, окаянной
реке поэзии,
устремленной к незнаемому, несуществующему свету.
Сергей Круглов