A cat in the night is rarely seen.

In the dark,
a cat is not found,
stumbled upon.

The cat finds you.

A cat,
the gleam of black,
the sinister sleek, the glowing moons
that may follow you in the night,
hold a penetrating sight.

A cat knows your sins,
observes your habits,
senses your sexual appetites.

A cat,
bearer of a winged back.
A cat, stalks among ground,
rooftops, and sewer ways.
It knows what you drop,
it knows your steps,
it smells where you’ve been,
and like fate
knows where you will go.

You can not fool a cat,
though it may go about it’s way
and let you believe it so.
You can not hold a cat
when it does not wish to be held.
It won’t be owned,
the cat simply obliges the thought.

But does a cat love?
Does it hurt,
shiver and cry?
Does it feel sting
when cursed at or feel fear
when threatened?
A cat does run,
but when running does it know
where it is running too?
How are we to know, for it is after all,
a cat.

I do not believe
I shall ever come across a more blurring mystery,
than that which saunters round the eyes,
and like a boat that flies yet is capsized,
then the mystical blasphemous ways,
of the cat.