They stalk through the night,
little agents of chaos,
silent as breath between dreams.
Fierce in their own rights,
they pad on soundless paws,
ghosts in the lamplight’s edge.

With eyes like shattered moons
they leap to perilous heights,
defying gravity and sense,
sliding through impossible gaps
with liquid grace,
fur brushing past the world unnoticed.

Fangs flash like whispered warnings,
claws unsheathed in silence —
a blur, a hiss, a sting,
quick as lightning’s tongue.
They draw red lines with no regret,
then vanish
into shadows they conjure.

Hunters of motion, stalkers of toes,
they wait with stillness honed by ages,
then pounce —
from curtains, counters, corners —
seemingly from nowhere.
Phantoms of domestic life,
they bring terror to feathered toys
and unguarded ankles alike.

But even chaos must rest.
They curl among their chosen kin,
nests of warmth and woven limbs.
Then, as if reborn from war,
they trill and chirrup,
announce their presence proudly,
small furry rattletraps
full of purrs and head-butts,
nudging for the next pet,
the next proof of love.

They are contradiction,
elegant menace,
sweet tyrants of the hearth —
keepers of the quiet hours
and rulers of our hearts.

Tais-toi, petite souris!
Le chat veut prendre ton vie.
Il a bu tous le lait,
Et il va rester,
Et attendra ton mari.


English alternative (non-literal):

Be quiet, little mouse!
A cat has entered the house.
He drank the bowl dry,
And will sleep nearby,
While he waits to chase your spouse.

No tear will fall to earth where we lay our final grave.
No history will tell the tale of a people just and brave.
And we will not resolve compassion with our casual consumption.
And we will have no time to reflect upon our anger and presumptions.

For when the end is in our sight we’ll do naught but close our eyes.
And when we hear of what they’ve done we’ll act as though surprised.
As they hold us to the barrel they will point and say, “look there”.
Before tired eyes and with weary minds are treats and tortures everywhere.

We concern ourselves with “p”s and “q”s. We worry loudly over words.
When true evil comes we’ll name it not. If we can’t speak it, it can’t be heard.
Shout destitution! Shout oppression! Shout ******! Shout ****!
Carpet others over. If none breathe, none will escape.

Our conscience we will cover in catchy slogans and perfumes.
We’ll be sheltered by our comforts, hiding in well-decorated rooms.
Making light of it casts light on things we seem to at once see and yet not see.
But each and every time the light is cast anew we cry, “this cannot be!”

We’ll spend ourselves on triviality. We’ll spend ourselves on skin.
We will not see the deadly spider thanks to the tangled web it spins.
Humanity’s death comes quickly, at the behest of it’s own bloodthirsty applause.
Through distraction we will ***** us out, without justice, and without cause.

How differently we wear our hate,
But how similar the fabric.
Through ages,
Across seas.

Voices call out different names,
But drip an equal venom,
This one purple,
That one green.

How much must be coated in filth
Before the state be declared entire?

Must no innocent inch remain?

It’s hazy. It’s yellow.
It spins and confuses.
It finds all the elements
Intellect uses.

It’s a smell.
It’s a memory.
It’s a comforting chill.
It’s a clever confusion
To wrap up our will.

It’s stagnant,
Yet vibrant.
It’s scathing,
Yet kind.
It’s the resources I’ve spent
To leave pain behind.

A massive abundance on a gentle breeze.
Oh, how the clouds seem to move with ease.
Smooth and certain across the sky.
A visual feast for a hungry eye.

Thick grey centres, with edges soft and unkempt.
Oh, to be in that world of which I’ve only dreamt.
To feel the cool wetness I imagine I’d feel
If I could break gravity, and be in the clouds for real.

I was born
with questions in my mouth.
Why do wolves howl?
What do bees dream?
Will I ever be held
the way that the ocean's depths
hold secrets?
*
I pressed my hands
into the cool dirt of every mystery,
removed them to find earth under my nails,
ink on my palms,
and a smile I still cannot explain.

They tried to tell me:
not everything needs to be known.
But how could I keep from exploring
when every whisper of the wind,
every caw of the crows,
every daisy's petal,
tells me there is more.

They tried to tell me:
Pandora's jar is just Eden's apple
wearing a new name -
blooming only sorrow,
but can we really know the light
without the dark?

Hope was the last thing breathing.
She was caught in the looking glass,
unable to speak,
and I thought her reflection
looked an awful lot
like me.