'I pray, can I be saved'

'Spent all of my money on a future grave'

I still listen. That's all I do, listen. I hear things like 'they will say'. I don't know who 'they' are, but I know 'they' won't say anything about me. No one will. No one does. Maybe because there is nothing to say. What would one say anyways?

Was it supposed to be a curse? I have always wondered that, if it was supposed to be a curse. The fall. The flight. The fragility. It has never seemed that way. Safe in whiskers and fur. A cat. She is just a cat, that is all that can be said. A cat and nothing more. The real curse, is that no one can fathom the very depths that are me.

'my leg - your hand - a smoldering brand'

'my place - distaste - we fell from grace'

She stands graceful and poised as a classical statue, expression composed and great dark eyes warmer than summer nights. Her face and hands are delicate, pale as ivory, and unmarred by any touch of Helios. The immaculate white of Paradise still stains her delicate skin while the black of clinkered sin streaks her slender bare legs. Vermillion silk and diamonds cling to her form and stream out on the wind, glittering like the night sky in troubled water, and her blowing hair shines like bloody clouds before the moon. A silver cross lurks gleaming and glowing between her breasts, dangling from a black and silver rosary that encircles her neck time and again like a noose. Where the Angel of Love walks, insects fall dead with tiny violet flashes. During the day she lives in the eyes of the blind, and every night she wakes up to put out the sun. At the extinguishing of every candle she is there, at the flick of every light switch, and at the final dimming of every eye, but she doesn't hate them. She never misses a party if it's held underground.There is nothing exceptional about her appearance, but the words flock around her in a razor cloud that leaves bystanders bleeding, roosting in the curls of her long unnaturally red hair and the folds of her scarlett dress. The drops they bear gleam like cabochon rubies on the graceful curves of collarbones and throat; occasionally one succumbs to gravity and scrawls a cryptic crimson word down into the ivory depths of her bosom. If you watch carefully, you might see a word hatch from the sting of her tongue, squirm between alabaster fangs and carnelian lips, and strike for your jugular.

'and this I tell you brothers'

'she took his soul, and put it in a bottle'

'along with all the others'

'you cling to nothing when it's all you've got'

'you measure love by the pain you have caused'

-even the Devil prays to God-

And so, I love this curse that you have laid upon me, wonderful in its simplicity. She is a cat, she is just a cat. In the beginning was THE WORD, and after that came a whole bunch of Words, and those were the angels who lit the Sun and hung the stars in the heavens and hold the Moon in its course, who tucked RNA between grains of clay and taught plants to seek the sunlight and winnowed them with a corrosive flood. There are higher orders, though, those who marshal the Words in vital array, who make the Story, and nothing in creation is beyond them. Not even this. And they gave it to me. They gave it to me to be just something simple. Something you won't ever see, because it's not something you would think of me.

-black as the pitch midnight-
-fur that absorbs the light-
-amber eyes that shine bright-
-tiny wings of pure white-
-eartips and tail edged in gold-
-a banded collar of ancients old-

'People have died for a taste of what lay underneath.'

'Will no one ever fathom the very depths that are me?'

--click here to go on--