The Cat

The cat has nine lives,
Each one worn like a secret
Stitched into his fur.
He never stumbles,
Never falters.
Each time he leaps,
He lands on his paws—
The world bends beneath him,
But never breaks,
As if gravity were merely a suggestion.

He never purrs—
Just watches from the corner,
Silent and proud.
He scratches strangers,
But to the familiar,
He offers only a passing glance,
Before returning to his grand world,
Too busy to notice anyone.

He eats when he wants,
Sleeps in the sun,
Pacing like a king on the couch,
His paws soft, deliberate,
Like he owns the air itself,
Unaffected by the weight of the world
That presses on the rest,
Free from the burden of need.

Everyone else envies him.
They try to put a bell on him,
But the cat always slips away—
Too clever.

A crooked schemer.

In the end,
It’s the people who wear the bells,
Clinking and jangling,
Tangled in their own tricks.

The cat doesn’t care.
He doesn’t even look back.
He just gives me a "meow,"
As if asking me,
“Did you see those fools?”
And I laugh at his antics,
While he just goes on to catch flies,
Stretch in the sun,
Glide through the rooms.
And when the people finally realise,
They feel like dirt
Beneath a pair of old hiking boots,
While the cat goes on,
Unbothered, unmoved...