Ode to my Cat (in memory)
give me your throat, your tender white flesh that I may learn to love and to feel love, or gentle tooth and claw.
Perhaps the lady Dove would disagree, or gracefully suggest
those claws and teeth were meant for death, for striking, secret, silent, from above, just for the simple electric thrill of
ripping and tearing that gentle white flesh. Perhaps love is a fickle beast with claws, but better to open the heart to wound, forgive the daily faults and flaws, give your trust as trust is do, and soon and sure and hand in hand you'll pause... to gaze at the gentle white moon. Matthew P. Schlette
2007-03-30
09:11:27
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