The CAT.

Old eyes peer out from winter's penury,

Draped in familiar soft sorrow,

The cat creeps on, inflicting time's injury,

Once sculptured we neglect tomorrow,

And recline in constant muse.

The agile days when glory filled the air,

When life erupted with song,

Drift like chimney smoke to nowhere,

Again we coil as if it's wrong,

The cat urges us to rise but we refuse.

There waits the cat, in silence

It's still moment lacks blood or energy,

But hidden deep in it's patience

There is a hint of melancholy.

A tale that annoys yet was meant to amuse.