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.