silent

I can't talk to you.

Not that there's nothing to say,
I simply can't form the words in my gullet,
they stick and swallow,
strangled before daylight's meet.

So how long can we stay like this?

Silent.

Until the words eat through my chest?
Burning through my flesh?

Will you "put up" with my silence?
Or will you walk away?

Loose my tongue
or lose me.

solitary

A really comfortable prison cell,

that's what I've built myself.

It's different than the usual grey walls,

barred windows,

prison food. 

It's the kind where I get to cook what I want,

use the bathroom when I want,

and even visit the outside.

But at the end of the day,

the door slams shut,

locked,

impenetrable social barriers, 

tyranny of distance.

The wardens of darkness patrol my mind.

I lie under my blanket,

staring at the cold, blank roof,

wondering how I can waste the day tomorrow

to distract me from these four walls,

this small space,

this tight trap.

hounded

My head is pushed down toward the pillow
under the rough, wiry flank of my familiar tormentor.

My nose crinkles,
disgusted by the sudden animal smell.

I struggle in discomfort,
but trying to shift a fat old dog is hard, and I'm quite tired.

This metaphor is chosen because,
like all animals,
dogs are wild and free.

But some stay, and become as familiar as dirt,
until you know their every movement,
all their little growls and yaps,
when they're hungry,
when they're playful,
and when they've just decided they want company,
and your head is a good place to sit.

My dog decided a while ago that I'm his.
He follows me everywhere, and because of his age often needs to sit and rest.
Everything stops for a while,
so he can sleep,
grab a drink,
but hopefully not gain strength.

Thanks for taking him out for a walk at least every once in a while.

Thanks for helping me train him,
tame him some,
so that at the very least,
he's not rude in company.

And thank you for the dog.
Just like ducks, the flowers of the field, and St John,
he's taught me a lot.