There is something almost exquisite
about silver cats.
Maybe it's the way they
crawl, languid and yet
poised.
Maybe it's the way they can turn
a phrase,
their paws scraping
the ground as they take
the faintest of looks.
They wear their stares without cares.
A silver cat is home to
all and none.
She hides the scars of a secret battle.
Her tears are black, her cries are deep
but in the end
she will always come back.
She knows the face of her palace.
I wonder if the silver cats have a
secret language for each other.
Sometimes I think they do but
don't want to tell us.
Their words are whistles.
For when they turn upon us, fear
they will be furious.
They have been our friends a lifetime,
the monsters we embrace.
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