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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Tabby Cat

There be panthers
where the broken wood collects.
Along the stream bank,
along the slime.
There be silence
where they cough and speak,
and no one sees them,
black as coal,
broken as the rock face
and the bones thereon.
There be panthers
that hunt the world,
and take a truth
in the prey that feeds them,
that they are pets
of noble inclination,
until one day,
the hand that fed them,
disappears without a trace
of its remains.

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