After the Regicide
The cats scream out soprano, tenor love
And desperate alto love beneath. They know
A deeper meaning, one of passion, shove
And claws we humans have forgotten. So
Intense their hatred which they wrap up in
Their wooing that we feel that they are far
Away as Venus, alien as sin
To Galahad, or maybe they just scar
Us with a jealousy because we lost
Our loving, our capacity for lust
Of voltages like theirs. Our love is frost
In contrast to their love, our frozen rust.
I’m homesick for that kind of loving pain.
Come back, romance, fierce love, return and reign.
~ Phillip Whidden