I Am Furred at Night
When my eyes turned black at night
and my breath ceased to haunt the midnight air
I knew that my long feet were soon to thump
the powder underfoot.
Outside, harshness is a way of life.
Outside, everything is imperfect,
and absolutes are rare.
Life is absurd if you’re an animal
but it is more so as that iterative process
evolution creates bipedal monstrosities
too naked and thin to survive
instead we must live off each other,
off instead of on, because that would be degrading.
The world takes us in, alone
and returns us much the same way,
though are we wiser?
Should we be afraid of death?
Does change make us stronger?
When did comfort finally rear its head
and make me think it was a good idea
to wear loose fitting thread-fur and
talk about existential importance,
from middle to end.
The loneliness is consuming,
binding my waking hours in knots,
I see the black and white shadows
on packed snow, and I whimper
hair standing stiff in anticipation of anxiety
and it comes like always, it wrenches
my heart through my mind; I cry out
but the years of fear have done their work;
my mirror tells me what I have done
so I return to what is simplest.
To my furred will-to-survive spirit
I send, now trembling with wariness, a quest
to unravel the secrets our two-legged brethren
have chosen to ignore. I pass knowledge from
one frightened absolute to another, live in a
place between quiet acceptance and raucous upheaval.
Today, I will wear my soft fur suit,
listen as trees grow, and embrace
the fact that each depression nap
might be one too many. The last.
The few to store in a cardboard box
on the top shelf.