Heathen
Try to took backwards to find the whisper which trails you, and you will tumble from the fence. Twitch your tail as you run and so avoid the grasping shadows. Dart, to the tallest, to the farthest, and look not back. A sorrowful cat. A white cat. Heathen by name. Blue eyes, caked with hardship, sad coat, dusty and matted. He did not twitch his tail, and so lost it to an eagle's talons. A loud breath, he cannot hide himself. A quiet purr, he cannot comfort himself.
The cry of the white cat haunts the morning. He is harried by crows and hunger lives in his belly. Who here has heard him? Where will his head find rest?
Not in the marshes, not in the wet paws and damp fur. Not where the slow soft earth lingers 'round the feet to slow the stride, ducks floating effortlessly away just out of reach through the tall yellow grasses. No, not in the marsh where the red-winged blackbird calls sweetly from the tip of the reed, where the ground gives in to betray the leap.
The cry of the white cat haunts the morning. He is harried by crows and hunger lives in his belly. Who here has heard him? Where will his head find rest?
Not in the marshes, not in the wet paws and damp fur. Not where the slow soft earth lingers 'round the feet to slow the stride, ducks floating effortlessly away just out of reach through the tall yellow grasses. No, not in the marsh where the red-winged blackbird calls sweetly from the tip of the reed, where the ground gives in to betray the leap.
The warcry of the white cat rattles past the sunset. He is unwelcome, carrying the seeds of illness with him. Who here has felt him? Where will his whiskers be still?
Not in the forests, in the cold shadows. The weightless squirrel is supported by barely a branch and cannot be caught. Rain is shed from the endless needles above, the needles accumulate and poke between the pads from below. The serpent hunts in the night, he smells upon his tongue, flickering to find soft flesh.
The lament of the white cat shivers through the night. He is searching for something. He is ever seeking. Who here has smelled him? Where does his path end?
The lament of the white cat shivers through the night. He is searching for something. He is ever seeking. Who here has smelled him? Where does his path end?
Not in the hills, on the hard rocks. The jagged spikes that split the hard soil, the circling birds. There is no cover, no safe place. The coyote's sharp teeth have no mercy, he grins like a cold skull always. He howls his laugh in the night, seeking his dinner. The hawk hovers ever above, hidden in the sun, sharp eyes that see through clouds and through skin and into the soul.
When you see the white cat, you will know what he seeks. His cry in the morning has warned you to make yourself ready. His warcry in the evening has called to you steel your heart. His lament in the night has made a dirge for your memory. When the white cat finds you, do not twitch your tail. Follow bravely the white cat. When Heathen comes for you, do not look back.
-J
When you see the white cat, you will know what he seeks. His cry in the morning has warned you to make yourself ready. His warcry in the evening has called to you steel your heart. His lament in the night has made a dirge for your memory. When the white cat finds you, do not twitch your tail. Follow bravely the white cat. When Heathen comes for you, do not look back.
-J
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