Sasha's Lamentations

She has little to say
 but continues to rev a noisy impact on her environment.
She mutters again, that she will not be at peace until I become,
the prolific author that is part of the street somewhere ahead,
she says.  
On that day,
she knows that I may stop pacing and dreaming,
however, probably not.
She knows I will always be one to pace and dream,
always searching through the sandcastle gardens in the sky
 for seeds that tumble forth that story.
 And Sasha would never refer to them as 'little stories',
for as a cat she knows the offence and maddening memory
 of an inappropriate diminutive.
She trusts that one of these hunted seeds
 will grow with the breath and hope that warmed the germ, 
and alarmed the general.
Sasha knows that if an idea has heavenly breath,
it has no choice but to stretch, groan and wade through the places of doubt and fear. Everything changes, when you are a cat.
If you raise your chin,
the world asks questions of power.
People  fall foul fretting over fear fed by foes.
Alert listless listeners foil the poor puss.
In vain they assume depth of thought.
Sasha would say that the introvert has all power,
as the mountain has volume in her echo,
so the thinker sheds life from doubt.
So, she tells me, my concerns will bear bounty,
the most lonely thought that escapes can fill any possible wonder.
Dream on,
says Sasha, 
make them deliver.