Secluded in a cold, dark room, I held tonight a solitary seance. There were no boards, no planchette, no candles, no table, no chairs, and no opening prayer. I’m the Black Cat, and they knew I didn’t require anything to speak directly to your soul. Only neophytes need religious books, crystal pendulums, Tarot cards, and town gossip to access your energy. They too knew I didn’t have an owner. I didn’t need an owner. I didn’t want to be owned. But this was your consultation, free of charge. I simply sat upright, like a burnt French loaf, and asked the Ghost one question: Who are you?
Death. You are Death. That was what the Ghost replied. I watched you grip at your heavy scythe with your two bony hands. You tried to maintain your weak balance, bending, then curling your dried up back like a drooping branch on a weeping tree. You remained whole, but your victims split off into many parts. I watched you furiously sliding, dragging the curved chine, chopping at hands, feet, and heads from off of them–your disobedient lovers.
Their limbs I watched plopping sloppily onto your spring-green garden hill along which you ambled, like a crownless king, grinningly cutting away at your once captured prey. A floral garden of dismay is what kept your life fertilized, always wetting it with suitably fresh blood. Thus, you bonded with your prey only to then exploit their soul and vandalize their bodies. Is that the reason why your garden trail exudes a strange scent?
Black Cat Words 