'The Cat', by Megan Bulbulia
They always seemed to give me
a cold dark glare,
Scrutinising my every move
As if I was in danger.
The way they move,
So dramatic, as if in slow-motion,
The way they strike:
Unforgiving, with no deliberation.
They’re independent with no doubt.
They hide and lurk in shadows.
But when they’re in the light,
They illuminate such radiance.
Their coats shine bright,
Their paws patter softly.
And as they sleep, by your side,
They purr away loudly.
Now I’m not a danger,
I’m no surprise,
They look at me lovingly
With warm bright eyes.
'Love' by Imogen Casey
I sat on a bench looking out at the city,
my phone on the ground, my heart in my hands.
The woman beside me stared with pity,
as a small tear rolled down my cheek.
I stepped in a cab without giving instructions.
The driver looked at me without disruption.
My family were praying just by the door,
all of them kneeling, heads down on the floor.
The body it lay as still as a rock.
Everyone here was all still in shock.
The arms were crossed, the eyes were shut,
the small scar on his arm where he was cut.
Now there is not a thing left of him.
Not even a trace, a scent or a sight.