A breeze of morning spring airs
Rustles the birch trees' branches,
Existing only as the movement
Of the umbral leaves upon the dew-sodden ground.
This clearing is sacred,
Its solace hallowed, known
Only to those who seek truth.
True love. True beauty. True peace.
Upon an oaken stump
Sits a sphere, entirely flawless.
Every aspect perfect: Perfect floof.
Perfect chonk. A perfect cat.
He is my god, my saviour,
Ruler of the sacred clearing, where
You can always find solace, and
A breeze of spring morning airs.
A jokey poem about an absolute chonker of a cat I once saw.
