Another poem from around two years ago. It is by far my favorite, and I plan to emulate this style for my future works. Enjoy.
Cars roll by every once in a while,
None of them notice me,
I long to chase after them every time,
Their tires blow sand and dust in my ears,
I try to scratch,
But my paws have rotted away,
Rusting and weathered wheels roast in the heat of the afternoon,
As they turn up rock and dry earth,
Plunging the debris into my bloated stomach,
Which swells with the truth only road kill know,
And only those humbled by decay can appreciate,
When the sand and dust settles,
The flies buzz with wisdom,
Whispering words of sophistication as they burrow,
Laying eggs beneath my fur,
They say to me:
“This world is no place for dreamers,
The only ones afforded the luxury of grandiose vision and beauty,
Are the ones who can no longer use it for the good of their neighbor,
And the only beings who can truly dream are the dead and dying,”
I listen with great understanding,
And I feel the Texas sun bathe my rigid bones,
I hear a buzzard screeching overhead,
Cawing out in wistful hunger,
Setting his eyes upon me with a reluctant yearning,
He too understands the meaning of loneliness,
With only the scraps of the abandoned and long forgotten,
To provide him with sustenance,
And continue his labor of scavenging by just a while longer,
I want to bark at him,
And remind him that he is not alone,
That there are others who feel his pain when the sun rises,
When all around you bustles with life and warmth,
And yet the frigid barrier of loneliness keeps it all out,
Imprisoning you with a desire for something more,
But the flies won’t allow it,
As their maggots hatch,
They gnaw at my throat,
Somehow I don’t feel a thing,
A sweltering dog day for a dead dog,
Forever napping on a porch of sand,
I try to pant away the heat,
But find that there is no tongue to pant with,
And no thirst to quench,
A lit cigarette soars from a car window,
And lands near my crumbling snout,
I want to play fetch with it,
But the car is already gone,
The cars always pass by,
None of them stop,
Perhaps they don’t care,
About a dead dog in the desert,
The buzzard sets in,
Taking away what’s left,
Providing me with a companionship only road kill know,
And I feel nothing but the heat of a summer’s day,
