I was writing a story,
a tale of love forbidden,
and ink flowed from my left hand
as my black cat purred away, hidden.
The townspeople dragged me out
and beat me, sure to make a scene,
pointing out all I did wrong
and how I was sinister indeed.
They laughed and they cheered
at the violence they created
and the blood flowed freely
onto the red street they illustrated.
Whatever I had done wrong
it seemed I would never quite know;
my sins were too great to mention
yet they were sure of every blow.
Sinister, I may have been to some,
but the real sin witnessed there
is in an uncompleted work of art
and an orphaned black cat without a prayer.