Cold Cocked Curse

Slinking silently through the night on tiny tipped toes, claws withdrawn. He mustn’t sleep until daylight’s dawn, prudently prowls, avoiding light. Clever, cunning crones craft a spell to purloin his priceless powers, control them in Eve’s evil hours, condemn powerless prey to Hell. Hither, fine ferocious feline. Soulfully sing your sacred song. Whiskers hoary, lavishly long subtle signs of ancient bloodline. He will not succumb to witches who wish to control, to command. Here he makes a substantive stand to thwart wicked witches’ wishes. Cruel claws render stinging slashes slitting through wrinkled, withered skin. They shrilly shriek their dying din, melting ghoulish, gray-green ashes.