They call me, the Mrs.



She comes from to time.

Asking me, ‘what is it you hope to find?’

You suit up everyday assuming nothing will get in the way.

Course, I always ask, again, ‘what is it that you say?’

She turns a perfect mane from…

full knowing

my destiny


my constant journey.

A woman’s nursery rhyme,



daily quaff of the physique.

When I look into those big green eyes…

picturing her swagger and smirk.

My vain attempts at spirituality.

‘Tis the humans conditioned response to reality.

I know what will go unsaid with her delicate nature.

Her effortless calm.

The lack of drama.

This and much more resists human karma.

Casual contemplation…

Amen to Cat nation.


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