The haunting of a new design
Placed present in the lift o wings
Few birds
Left high among the branches of the coming season’s
Lifting of the blood
Perhaps a futile call to flight
Or night
Where hunger rules

Atop the rock in the sun
I rest
Fur warmed and stroked with textured tongue
A paw to clean the residue of
Hunting from my lips
Free filaments o pollen off me whiskers
For the spacing of the day

Some resident gray rodent
Butterfly or bird
Might be the newest prey
I say
A shattered growl
To those
That just might venture to this thrown
Without a veil or treasure of their own
Fair charge to dragon dungeons
Chains to hold us here
Be fearful
Find
And force the path to new directions of the heart
Then
Pet me if you dare