A torrent, and a tyrant, and a flying blade of ice,
With the handle so far below me I can’t hear the screamed advice.
A vicious price to pay. A malicious form to sign.
If the fire doesn’t burn you, just sign on the dotted line.

Freaks and friends, and common sense.
An open book.
A lesson leant.
Forget all the noise and clutter,

Then forget the line.

The line is bent.

Would anyone notice if my world stopped it’s rotation?
Would I change in some way? Would I need more or less consultation?
And haven’t I changed? Is there something further to fix?
And sometimes I don’t even like music.

If I raise my head high enough will it stay above water?
If I focus enough will I see clearer and farther.
And if I’m smart enough will I see all of their tricks?
What if sometimes I don’t even like music?

I have cared far too much, but don’t I now care too little?
Have I ever been firm, or always flimsy and brittle?
Now what hat can I wear? What role truly fits?
Will it matter if I don’t even like music?

Have my passions changed, or have they just disappeared?
Will I be forgiven if I’m forevermore sullen and weird?
What’s already faded and fallen can neither brighten nor stick.
And these days I don’t even like music.

But I have seen the clouds part on the darkest of days.
I have greeted the ALL with hurrahs and hurrays!
And I’ve even begun to see the beauty in it.
Still, sometimes I don’t even like music.

Let the vultures pick our bones.
Let them grow too fat to fly away.
Let a quiet calm fill the air.
Let fade those things our distain might say.

Let me drown my sorrows so that I do not drown in them.

Leave each transmission unreceived.
Leave the roots to reclaim the soil.
Leave opinion and presumption
Where they have no soul to spoil.

Leave me to drown my sorrows so that I do not drown in them.

Allow some understanding for
Those you do not understand.
Show compassion to your enemies,
And make requests of your demands.

Allow me to drown my sorrows so that I do not drown in them.

Try to think of things
You might not have thought
Deserved consideration.

Maintain your poise.
Tune out the noise.
Tune into your own station.

Challenge what you think and feel.
Try your best to live up to your own ideals.

Do not
Become the rot
In your own foundation.

I fear ego.
Do I fear it too much to see it?

I fear conceit.
Do I abuse myself too much in effort to avoid it?

What is it that I crave?
What eye do I desire?

What rhythm moves me so?
And does the feeling hold me, thrill me?

Though the night is dark and cold,
It’s not the wind that chills me.

Would I choose my judge?
Would he be too kind?

I justify the search for satisfaction.
I fret; I do not satisfy.

Is it right to judge the world?
Is it our responsibility?

As my skin grows dry, and bones grow old,
It’s not the wind that chills me.

It’s not alright to be yourself.
You have only what no one wants.

I won’t get very far.
I’ll move neither swiftly, nor surely.

Be annoying quietly.
You can’t know what that tells me.

I looked back. How far did I see?
It was not the wind that chilled me.

Should I fear the chaos I love to feed?
What denial is enough to stave off greed?

I recoil in terror equally
From ego or mediocrity.

He likes the sound of other women.
I’m electric with insecurity.

As I take the thought and let it in,
It’s not the wind that chills me.

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.