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THE CATS, by Michael C. Phifer.
Howling maddened packs of dogs,
The hunters of the night chase
The poor damned souls of those
Who now reside in Hell.
Behind the=piles of cloudy banks,
=nbsp; Along the river beds of winds
The =unters chase, hunted race
Beyond the=silvered mirror of Moon,
Adorned by the Death=E2s-head skull.
And the skeletal digits of skeleton trees
Writhe upward toward the sky
That inverted bowl of Death
The sardonic, mocking laughter of the wind
Sweeps low across the emptiness,
The loneliness of ploughed-up fields and vacant lots.
The dismal alleys of a hundred cities
Echo to he padding of countless cats
And the crying of the shes with nine tails.
Nine tails and but six lives; no= nine, but six
For one was lost in rainbow clouds of light
Which brought the mushroomed darkness of destruction.
And one wa= lost in volcanic actions in the heat of Hell
Where leaping tongues of flame played games with screams
Until the screams were gone and flames flamed out.
The last was bartered, bargained=for and played with
In a macrocosmic game within a microcosmic world.
The game was laid ... and played ... and lost.
The =orld, a dying shrunken husk,
Lay empty, quiet in the night.
Across the shadowed fields and darkened corridors
The cats began to play ...
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