Eight dead mice where once was nine
All that’s left is one to pine
Under the burning blood-red sun
And here he lies, a mouse undone
A lonely spirit, he feels profound

meow

an egregious fate
sufficiently pejorative
slighty expected

Jilted stares summon circles hasty and hazy
Songs sung serene and still
Sighs stunned with shuns
And sins stung by sickly sisters
Who sit sinisterly and seethe