not a poem but a fun lil writing thing

The cat’s fleas are geriatric after shadowing it for generations. The cat itself isn’t too far from plummeting into misery and monotony, slowly creeping towards the edge of demise. Slowly creeping towards its owner, it begs for a scrap it knows it can’t eat, beseeching for a head pat because it wonders if it is still alive. The cat lets out an extensive caterwaul of cognizance. For the first time, it realizes how myopic it has been. Not once had it wished good fortune to its owner; not once had it let a rat get by; not once had it said, “I love you,” because not even once, it thought about how it might make your day. It always thought the phrase might have a positive connotation, but even so, it didn’t see the point in utilizing it. The cat remains dormant in the minds of strangers (which have probably been overlooked), and as it lies in the evening sun, it cries. However, it cries softly, so it may listen to the tumultuous world it had never noticed before.