My black cat stairs into the still darker room searching, groping, for light. Shyly but avidly he searches, looking for a speck of light.
The flowers, though bright in the sunlit garden, might as well be perilous petals. They could be nonexistent and make no difference, yet he stops and stares, waiting for the light to bring out the bright purple of the lilac.
Finally he moves on coming to a short pile of books leafing through them with his paddy paws. The words could mean nothing and everything all at once. He constantly waits to see the light that makes the black printed letters a different black than the rest of the room, but his hope once again leads him astray.
Finally he sees two balls of light, and as he gets closer, they get bigger and he realizes those balls of light were his eyes. This is a mirror. And only he can see the light in everything.
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Poetry Catalog
PoesíaThe best part about writing is that sometimes it speaks to you.
