GOD AND THE CAT

Tom Shannon

It comes to me

On poxed wings of death.

A gaunt vagabond,

Victim of a lavish world.

A void of natural instinct,

Devoid of substance.

It's head hung

Like black drapes of mourning.

It cries to me.

Wasted flesh embraces bone,

A death veil

Suffocating an imprisoned heart.

I turn my back.

I seal it's fate.