In any case, here's the poem (feel free to leave a comment with your thoughts or a link to your own NaPo entry):
|Bow before your master...|
I dream the sun swept me away on a cruel wind tide
with twisted fingers of porous stone creaking
and graceful sunbolt hands lifting me to a heaven
yet written in the histories.
Not Death's vision, but the serene whisper
of a higher plane.
The cats known the place by its temples,
where they collude to one day return
with men clipped at their feet --
No, paws. Claws.
Terrible the feeling of loss, but the cats
are emperors in their minds and they have
no dreams but those they bring back (in black)
to the old Empire.
Rule, Britannia. Britannia rules the waves...
Perhaps it should be Catannia rules the graves.
Or perhaps it's a pernicious psychosis
which explains my distrust of cats.
(Or, they are truly up to no good,
clambering on clawed limbs in nostalgic obsession).
How alike, the cats and empire,
ever so sure of themselves, sure of me
sure of the winter bones
left behind by their soon-armies.
My mother says I have an over-reactive imagination
(or is it hyperactive, like a feline enemy),
but to read between the lines of my dreams
tells me "Doom."
The tricksters have finally come to play...