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.

© Autumn Siders 2016

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