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Flapping without flying.
It feels okay.
Your scales of fur corrode.
A foul, but sweet, but warm, but damp...
Scent of something new.

You're red and blue tomorrow,
Yellow, pink, today.
But forever, I'd say grey.

You're white, dirtied, pure.
Once lost, but now at home.

If invaders must die,
Make yourself the furniture.
You can stain my doormat red,
So you can see me before we part.

And I will hold your face in hand,
And with one cloth, I'll clean
Your blood away from head.
Your blood away from eye.

Your scaled tail of fur.
Your cotton socks.

You're red and blue tomorrow,
Yellow, pink, today.
But forever, I'd say grey.

You're white, dirtied, pure.
Hurt, but still at home.

The metal strings of death
Tug at your whiskered roots.
Cling, my angel, cling,
And mark my shoulder pink.

Like lovebites from a lover,
Your claws can mark my home.
And dig out, I've felt you leave before.
Must you leave me here once more?

You're white, dirtied, pure.
Alive, and still at home.

And forever, for not seeing,
Life would tell with much dismay,
"If you're white and brown today,
Forever, I'd say grey."

Classic, Zig, you are,
But I search and search and search
To no avail.
Nothing could replace...

The noise of so much hurt:
The grazes, gashes, wounds.
They sing to me. And, awe.
And silence.

Your silence.

You're white, dirtied, pure.
Here. And still at home.

Because we were flapping without flying.
And it felt okay.
Your scales of fur were damp.
A foul, but sweet, warm, damp...
A scent of something new.

If you're bloodied and blue today
Forever I'd say grey.

And under the ground you go.
And out of the way, you stay.
And over your vessel, I promise.

You're white, dirtied, pure.
You're gone, but still at home.

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