The Apostate’s Hymn

The priest crossed o’er the threshold where

the witch-light once had burned,

his silver censer swinging slow,

his Latin crisp and turned.

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But embers spoke in glowing eyes

from shadows thick as wool—

a creature shaped of velvet night

and mockery most cruel.

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"Good father, shall we sing a psalm?"

it asked with teeth like pearls,

"Your voice cracks on the higher notes—

I’ll teach you how it curls."

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It wove between his trembling legs

(a whisper, then a weight),

till every verse he tried to chant

became a shared debate.

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"Let not your heart be troubled," purred

the darkness made divine,

as incense smoke began to twist

in patterns like its spine.

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The cottage sighed with stolen breath,

the rafters hummed along,

while somewhere in the swallowing dark

a new-made hymn was born.

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Now when the village children pass

that garden overgrown,

they swear they hear the sweetest chant—

two voices twined as one.

________________________

The black cat sleeps upon the sill,

the priest kneels at the pew,

his fingers tracing psalms upon

the warm fur soft as dew.

From the Censored Verses of: The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi" - where even the devout may learn to purr.