meow, meow, meow
sings the moonlit shadow,
a velvet-footed ghost
with candles for eyes—
slipping between the ribs
of midnight’s broken fence.
A pawprint pressed
in yesterday’s rain,
a secret
curled
in the crook of a dying star.
meow, meow, meow
is not a call—
it is a spell,
whispered
in the hush
of the hunted.
Each syllable
a claw scratch
on memory’s silk.
She is dusk,
wearing fur made of fog,
tail a question mark
dragged through fallen petals,
bones rattling like wind chimes
in a temple no one visits
anymore.
meow, meow, meow
—again, again, again—
echoes in the cathedral
of a dream,
where fish fly
and time is just
a mouse
we keep chasing
through the rafters.
ᓚᘏᗢ
