memoirs of a poet

My kitten scratches at the forbidden floorboards,
Frantically chases his tail to the point of tears,
Pounces,
Chases the shiny red spot.
He is so easily lead on, 
So foolish, innocent,
Bless him.
Dumb cat,
Still unaware; I am meticulously pushing the button,
Holding it firmly, but not firmly enough.
I materialise the light. 
Make it flash, flicker. On. Off. On. Off. Off.
To give him his transient excitement,
His tiny cheap thrill.

We play this game daily,
Late into the stolen nights, 
Yet he still falls for it.

He would carelessly voyage through continents,
Run countless marathons in circles,
Allow his breathing to falter,
His soul to quiver,
to get what he thinks he most desires.

For he foolishly believes the shiny red spot enjoys the chase too,
He believes it is all real.
Despite the insistent crashing.
Walls. Doors. Endings.

He would give so much. 
Train his reflexes, 
Propel himself into madness.
Play at ignorance to everything else. 
He would never be persuaded to acceptance, fate. 
By those who told him to forsake the chase.
To play with his other toys,
To eat his dry kibble, 
Lay on his back,
Feel the sun. 

For red is not the cure of all ills.

He will keep on chasing things that do not belong to him. 

Imaan