medieval cat painting
free verse poem
she has smelled every scent that walked by,
each unshaven man, every band of jesters,
accused witches that fell apart, rejected by the monarch,
cat-human face unfit for its body, uncanny valley
appears again, chastised and shamed,
placed beneath the chopping block to watch the heads roll,
eyes painted still, fixed on the table,
branded a symbol of execution,
the smell of metal on metallic blood is never too much,
she would imagine in daydream,
the eighty-eight-pound blade cracking,
breaking into a million shards flying toward her face,
but she always woke from sleeping
with her eyes wide open, always
watched the next performance, all those cheering behind her,
a mascot will never forget what it represents,
even she who represents death,
and one day she’ll get sick of it and try to crawl out the canvas, with
no body to live in, only front legs and a face,
just enough to crawl towards the end,
paws with no claws silent in the gravel, on the wood,
on the cutting board, she’s done with everything
with her pancake head on the stool,
she spent forever just reaching, reaching, for the rope.
Chris Taylor is a young writer who creates poetry as a coping mechanism, sharing it as a way to connect with others. In their spare time, they enjoy spending time around dogs, family, and listening to electronic and alternative music.
