A history of insensitivity and atrophy,
We stand together, numb;
Leather for skin, bile for blood,
But my cat outside is oblivious,
Coiled on a porch, she sings, “same as tomorrow?”
We are the crumbs of a dying world,
Of stale vegetables swept under a rug,
A child screams through the night, voices which fade under the sun.
C’est la vie, my cat says,
Licking her fur and a gentle shrug.
Or is there hope yet, for a new kind of death,
One where pain is but at the end,
And should we wake up tomorrow?
My cat, she yawns,
No toll has taken her, no sorrow.
Or should we cease to imagine,
Will reality become a dream?
Can we wake in the middle and continue down that magnificent stream?
Or should we trade places, for a moment fleeting,
For look at my cat, she is sleeping.