Poetry | Stories | Photography
Watching the leaves move.
He is eating something I would love
Why does he never share?
Walking with him is bliss.
To run and jump around is freedom
He seems sad about this
Wanting to be close at night
denied the comfort of his grand bed
I want to understand him
My human
Between human and ghost, the old one sits waiting for the inevitable.
A liminal being, he is already in a place unknown to the living ones.
His cats chirp and meow as if to say, “Hurry along, Dear. You might be tasty.”
He waits for the one who will not arrive.
C & K 