top of page

My inertia sits devoted. 

A languid flow of nothingness.

Her torpor rests in coldness.

Her death today I noted.


A violent peace becomes her as she lays, alone, cold. Her tiny body, silent, a death has stolen home. A dog becomes the owner, a battle lost, forgotten. Fur is flattened where blood became the nectar for the lion. What cries were heard? And what was lost? What was swallowed by the wet air. Was it long? Did she fight hard? Did her death come from the trust she learned elsewhere? Somewhere a family, a child, another cat, wonders where her friend is. 


Life is so meaningless, it’s only for a moment and then, nothing. You survive life’s tragedy only to become, lifeless and empty. A little cat died today, Sunday the 23rd of December, she struggled, scared, and she lost the fight. 


I am left living with her murderer. Why can I not accept life’s circle? I can, but it aches…


It’s not for me to reconcile the loss, to accept guilt for the natural instinct to protect, and to kill, or, is it?


Domesticate the beast, and it remains, a beast. Find a place inside the violence and find its purity, and wisdom. The simplicity of battle. To fight, and to win, or to lose. Simple, honest, and real. 


I am quiet inside, a prayer for the lost life and a hope for the belief in, forever after. All the times as a kitten she played, she trusted and now she is dead, alone, abandoned, and shrouded in a garbage bag, lying on green cement. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you little one, I’m sorry you weren’t faster. I’m sorry you are so cold now even though I don’t believe she can feel anything, she is long gone. But her tiny little body lay there, her eyes, gray, and empty. 


Another day it might have been different, today however, is today.  


bottom of page