I gently graze your delicate,
But withered spotted hair,
As you lay on my lap.
Your eyes are tired,
With every year that's gone by,
Time, as a ruthless accountant,
Has taxed you.
I see you walk in circles,
Stumble and fall,
At the slightest touch.
Your eyes show a whiteish hue,
You get scared at any subtle movement,
Surrounding you,
But a remnant of your sight remains.
Your name,
Nothing else but a word,
That flies into existence,
And dissipates without a destination.
Every time I pick you up,
You seen lighter,
Time has been kind,
I must say,
18 in canine years,
Is a coveted milestone to have,
My friend.
Once a strong partner,
Jumping effortlessly,
To tall beds,
Who leaped,
Whenever he saw a cat running by,
Who learned more tricks,
Than you can count,
A hand shaker,
A master of playing dead,
A sitting expert,
A roll over acrobat,
A loving friend,
Who does not know me anymore.
My friend is getting old,
So, as every night I do,
I'll continue picking you up,
And gently graze your delicate,
But withered spotted hair,
As you lay on my lap,
Until you say goodbye.
Goodnight old friend...
And Goodbye...
YOU ARE READING
Abroad
PoetryThe purpose of this poetry book is one of defiance. Not to others, or anything in particular. It is against the war we wage internally, against ourselves every day. There is no bigger challenge in life than facing your thoughts, your true emotions...
