Macera

This is the creative work of F Macera. THE CAT AND THE VIOLINIST Serene and congruent shadows, draped passionately with the majestic, hushed, and sorrowful cloud dust, steadily rumble and moan along the bowled rim of the Earth, which lays, perched with vibrant and refulgent glee, at the seat of wonder itself, pondering the next turbulent, yet soothing, play of the powerful peach, as it fights desperately the rising twilight juggernaut. The same thing could be said for the curious, quaint, yet petulant, tabby, who stakes humbly his claim, amid the jasmine-soaked bench, behind the harsh and dilapidated old English cottage, which moans at the prospects of its jarred tin roof, and that incessant dripping pipe, and its shamelessly ragged coat of paint, which once glowed as boastfully as a June meadow of jolly buttercups. Creeping stealthily, with barely a ripple on his lake of a perseverant ambiance, and flirting barely with the bedraggled and pitiful thistle, which once had been conquered by jocular roses, tittering petunias, and nonsensical violets, our dear tabby friend believes that an alien is nigh-and low and behold, what should his stout silky ears perceive? The stroke of a downbeat, and an invalid rush of- by heavens! Just beyond the reach of the exasperated windows, where the spider has claimed finally his regal state, and within a dusky, yet enchanting room, where the mellow tunes and treasures seem to sparkle with the eager and anxious lapses of time, our headstrong hobo perceives the fairest of youth, the pride of Eve, and the lily of delight. It’s a fair young girl, with luscious and gleaming hair, just like the color of a trembling child’s first, charming, and valiant rocking steed, with a pale and ashy face, like a hushed and standoffish pond, tucked into a hidden glen, and with that rare and fervent smile that glitters, with starlight from the realm of innocence proclaimed, slowly, yet lovingly, strumming onto her jubilant little music box of the angels, her bittersweet and somber violin- her very own sailboat on the sea of congruent melodies and fears. He falls in love, that volatile and reclusive king, and before the tides of restraint may wet his grubby toes, his claws are battering the intolerable windows, meowing fervently, waiting for that mystical and elusive sprite to wrap him up with the quilt of heavenly fantasy, rub his taut and firm belly, and whisper such primeval ballads from the epoch of his kind’s monarchial pursuits. But alas! Perhaps the windows still tethered their might of Atlas; perchance she couldn’t favor lower residents of fate; or her music had enamored her beguiling and rapturous senses, gulping down greedily chords from Juno. Instead of feeding our tremulous hero’s lustful soul, with fruits of Persephone’ s orchard, the maiden continues to strum and dance, strum and dance, without a single glance from her castle of elfish play, and her compass to innocence abound- with the tyrannical gate drawing the line between the distraught old tabby, and the jewel of his perplexed stare. As it comes to pass, not all is to be sought, and yet, not all is to be lost, for a painting may still bear the foibles of even the most abstract Picasso; the enveloping ocean of hay, that once came to kiss the bespeckled streams near the misshapen windmill, will continue to laugh to their chimes of perseverance, even with the scars of sporadic famine; and the door will imprint, upon its heart, that etch that would make the cottage that portal to Eden, as the brawny and brazen soldier swept up his Guinevere of vanished nights, after his ordeal had been justified finally.

**Wonderland Revisited**
//Dedicated to those who fight incessantly for the rights of endangered animals.//

Ah, how doth ye glimmer, ye bold and impudent buttercup youths, who never seem to jettison your foibles, of the golden blossom, which traipses across the periwinkle stream, where I became a diminutive mayfly, and the petulant passenger never missed his chance to leave his covert scheme in the entrails of Glory's reign?

How can ye forget, ye caviling stump of a shopkeeper's folly, that 'tis your own strained susurrus, of a humble pride, that forbade me to enthrall that lurid sparkle, of abandoned fairy charm, as I fought to maintain my neophyte grip on the shores of frivolous Spite and Gaiety?

Why must ye leave my forsaken triumph, upon the tarnished trove of Whimsical Flotsam, and toss a reckless eye upon its burnished and haughty gleam, when 'tis I who was your commandeering lily, your elm of sophisticated truth, your queen of the most beatific beam that ever kidnapped your plaintive hues of red and white!

But lo! Who goes there upon that embankment of Childish Supremacy, where the dewdrops of morning-kissed pansies dapple with sirens' chortles, where shadows of Memory's progeny leap with the ethereal and gossamer wings that adorn every salubrious elf, and near the alabaster rabbit who, curiously enough, seems to tuck his cumbersome fobs into his coarse and disheveled coat pocket?

Gracious behold! Have I forged an acquaintanceship with this spark of ravenous splendor and affection, which slipped away from that crystalline citadel of rainsoaked majesty, with her blue June hoop skirt, and her lace-fringed petticoat? Could she have pranced through that mystical aperture in the wake of that celestial mirror, as I have proceeded to accomplish in the wake of my opaque and turbid dreams?

Awake, dear child! Arise, and make haste! Let me see that blissful twilight in your serene and whitewashed eyes, and let me hear those nymphlike chimes in the evanescent ambience, which betrays, in the most gracious assembly, that incessant raillery of chivalrous doom and companionship, who seeks to caterwaul on the very whim of profound lucubration! Let me not slip on my meandering journey towards that halcyon springtime, that garden of verdant flirtations, and that seraphic aerie, of noble tranquilities, where that final oceanic festival collided over the acme of the bellwether's soothing panegyric towards my bedazzled specter.