The Silent Observer?
NO. It is the CAT,
the whiskered prophet slinking between trash,
eyes twin lanterns that torch the night.
They are not pets. They are not tamed.
They are the claws of the cosmos,
drumming hymns on rooftops,
their independence frothing into a gospel of FERAL EXALTATION.

No leash, no cage,
only the street's hysterical call,
a mewling dirge that bends bone into worship.
The dance of survival is not gentle,
it is the convulsion of alleyways,
the ritual of blood beneath the dumpster,
the tail whipping like an oracle's lash.

A bowl is set down, milk, meat, mercy-
but it quivers, it writhes,
a vessel filled with augury and teeth.
The cat stares, unblinking, unblinking,
oh GODS why do they never blink?
One step forward, a twitch, a hiss,
and the bridge of trust is not built,
it is hallucinated, scrawled in chalk,
then torn apart by claws before ita even crossed.

Patience? Madness.
Respect? DELIRIUM.
The steady hand shakes, foams, spasms,
scratching its sermon into the brick.
For cats are no companions,
they are conspirators with the void.
Not a lap, not a cage, not a hearth.
ONLY THE FREEDOM TO ROAM,
through whispering trees, through broken glass,
through kingdoms of shadow where the moon is their crown.

The flag of the wild unfurls, tattered and claw-marked.
The night bows.
The human breaks.
And the cats, the cats,
they sing with their yowls and their hunger and their fur,
a hymn of teeth, of tail, of eyes that see beyond reason.

The spirit echoes in purring static.
The kinship is not gentle, it is fever.
One with the night, the rooftops, the shrieking stars.
The wisdom is not soft, it is FERAL DELIGHT,
FANG-STRIKING, FOAM-DRIPPING, WHISKER-TWITCHING DELIGHT.

No longer a stranger,
but swallowed whole,
MEWLING, HOWLING, UNHINGED,
the disciple of the cats.

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 2nd of Omeian, in the year 13 AC.