The panther paces.

Waiting reminds him that clarity is painful
but his pain is unreadable,
obscure, chiaroscuro to their human senses.

In time they will misread his gait,
his moon mad eyes,
the almost gentle way his tail caresses the bars.

In time they will mistake him
for something else-
without history,
without the shadow of being,
a creature without the penance of living.

They will read only his name.

They will be unable to percieve
what strangeness
lies beneath his patience.

Patience is the darkest side of power.

He is dark.
He is black.
He is exquisitely powerful.

He has made pain his lover
and hidden her completely.

Now he will never forget.

She will give birth to memories
they believe he has been broken of.

He smells new rain,
tastes its change.

His claw skates along
the bone cold floor.

Love curled up and died
on such a floor.

He blinks.
Clarity improves.
He hears other creatures scream and fade.
But silence is his.

He knows.

In time the gates will open.
In time his heart will open.

then the shadows will bleed
and the locks will break.

Penned by my hand on the 4th of Ios, in the year 103 MA.