There I saw him
Sitting in the rain,
A moggy chucked out in the cold.
Hood pulled over
A brown mess of hair,
Coals smouldering from the shade therein,
Knees pulled up tight
Against a red cotton chest.
How often has he been locked out
Metaphorically and literally?
Will this be
The last time?
Now will he knock and enter?
Or will he stay
In the gutter
Of his burning loneliness?
Tears mingling
With the Mother's,
Fire and water clinging to one another,
Polar opposites
Waiting, hoping
For some companionship other than a nemesis.
Will the moggy be rehomed?
Should I pick him up and dry him off?
Or shall I stay in my own gutter of Soledad
Offering my own tears
To congeal with the masses
As my fire is extinguished by the rain?
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@Delilah
Just an average 17-yr-old from Northern Ireland. Kik: Delilah_95
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