The Day of the Cat

 

The Day of the Cat

 

If I ask you to accompany me, offer loving arms,

to stand tall among rough thistle and ferns,

would lips curl and sneer, hard heart out of reach,

gasping like starfish aground on the beach?

Oh, I read in silver pieces, know I am right,

face down your heartbreak before you take flight.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I wrote words of passion and sang you my verse,

would you laugh in joy to hear love rehearsed?

Better at slating me; send out for a hearse,

my songs do not reach you, life only gets worse.

Oh, I think I read in stone words on my tomb,

your chrysanthemum fading lily white bloom.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I asked you to chase me, run wild through my mind,

unearth our deep forests, remain there entwined,

would you mock-up a soft sigh, to yawn and cry,

‘wolf, wolf’, shoot down sheep standing idly by?

Oh, I think those chestnut words stain your face,

translating anything true to some other place.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I stretch out to catch you, as you surely fall,

melt ice from your face when I pity your call,

sponge pain from the eyes you study in shame,

will you shoulder our balance of loss and gain?

Oh, I see us strongly in your weakening years

ripping pages from journals as pussycat purrs.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I give her my guitar, would she learn to play

sweet songs of tomorrow, sad songs of today,

burn mustard manuscripts of weary yesterday?

If I give her my pen, will she script our play?

Oh, I hear her calling from love’s future,

with sweet words to lay me down and tutor:

 

She cups me and teases, plays me like twine,

flashing forever eyes, she asks to be mine,

pleasure long and languid, devours salty wine,

summons me inside to cave soaking brine.

Oh, I feel new now as glad fountains outpour,

she lies back drenched and begs me for more.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.