The Canine Cure

I long for the canine cure
with a passion as strong as it’s pure
for the screech of the dog catchers van
which will allow me to be who I am

but, oh he is sneaky, this dog
as he slinks in trailing the fog
the eddies and pools, all shades of grey
that smother the clear light of day

I’ve tried to hide from his gaze
by turning to face the suns haze
but the shadows that grew at my side
were his refuge, his quiet place to hide

I pretended he just wasn’t there
but still I felt his coarse hair
as he brushed past my armour again
seeking to find his way in

I threw him the scraps from my soul
and he pounced and let out a growl
I thought I might make my escape
but I heard still his soft, steady pace

there is no outpacing the hound
no reprieve from his bite can be found
so I’ll suffer the feel of his teeth
till healing comes from beneath

somewhere there is inside me
the person that strives to be free
to face down the dog that is black
and revel in the shape of his lack

© ceenoa