Worst poem to ever go down in history.


I had come from the water, and I always will

I had always felt the splash, the cold winter chill

I never knew what happened that night, and I will never know

But I knew there was blood, and above all, the red-stained snow

They say that I was a sickly kit, at best a weakling

and they were right: but I always have the protection of my mother's wing

Under the soft glare of the moon

the shifting sand dunes,

I cared for nothing, and no one at that

Not even my own fellow cats

But I knew that eventually that comfort would end

and when the lights fade out, and twist and bend

when I am no more and no one cared

not even the from the high hawk's glare

when darkness overcomes us, and it all goes away

and we can no longer keep the nightmares at bay

that's where I'll be

but you won't be seeing me drop onto my knees

because even when memories go out

like the dying embers on the flames...


"Kits, back down," Silentsong commanded, bending over the elder. He was muttering, and one of his eyes were closed. Lying down, tail twitching; acting as though he was in pain. "What's happening?" Gingerkit asked, trying to see over the commotion.

Their mother sighed. "Saying nonsense... he was a great warrior, but..." she stared down at his writhing body. "It's his time."

"What do you mean?" Plumkit squeaked, but Silentsong pushed her away as gently as she could. "I'll make him all right again," she whispered, but there was uncertainty in her eyes.

But the elder's one, remaining eye lay open. Its blue depth was like frost on a winter day, and its gaze like the darkest of nights. "I can't keep the nightmares at bay anymore," he croaked.

Plumkit lay closer to her mother as Silentsong tried to calm him down. "What's he doing?" she asked, almost scared.

Her mother took a deep breath, and tried to think of the rights words to tell her daughter. "It's fine, my little kit. Just another one of an elder's tales."