A ginger tomcat, old and wise with years,
In rocking chair doth lazily repose,
His fur, once bright, now mottled, thin and seers,
His purring voice a soothing, gentle dose.
His eyes, once sharp, now dim with memories,
Of chasing mice and birds in days long gone,
He dreams of youth, of carefree energies,
And happy days that couldn't last forever on.
He remembers sun-drenched windowsills,
And lazy afternoons in summer's heat,
The gentle touch of human hands that stilled
His restless spirit, made his heart complete.
But now those hands are gone, and he is old,
His memories, his only warmth to hold.
He dreams of days when he was strong and bold,
And roamed the streets, a king among the fold.
But now he sleeps, a picture of content,
His body swayed by chair's gentle motion,
A life well-lived, with joy and love spent,
And now, a peaceful, quiet devotion.
So let him sleep, this old and ginger cat,
His dreams, a treasure, where memories are at.