curiosity killed the cat

well,

who's to blame for her nosing around

this cat fussing

only to find

sweet escape

in all the butting and bantering;

this shiny, feathery wand teaser.

and who's to blame the cat

for wanting much more than

whatever's shiny on the surface;

hunting a moving target

this insatiable mind.

and who to blame when the cat succeeds?

and in doing so, finds out,

that the prize was, in fact, rancid,

poison for the mind, poison for the mouth.

can she perform what God once did

transforming this wasted land of bones

into something powerful and holy,

calling herself Ezekiel?

and if she hopes for such a revival,

waiting for the bones and tendons to form,

will she be ridiculed for not paying heed to warnings

when all advised her that there were better men,

better land to run to and hunt.

how to placate what curiosity brings,

cat who was previously yearning,

now cat who is heavy with doubts.

and just how many masks had the prize worn,

for all to tell her it was no good for her,

pressuring her to make the run.

The Noresoup Jukebox