Suicide Dogs
Dead dogs in the streets,
I know why,
Internal organs spilled,
inside out, now outer-organs everywhere for all to see,
If things could be like they were before,
There would be no whimper's or sigh's,
A pup that is most played with is always glee,
No, you do not forget what it is to be a pup,
Tickled and toyed with chasing after masters,
Grown and forgotten with iron gates and wooden doors now shut,
You have felt the swift blow of repudiation,
What a disaster,
Forced journey’s now taken to nowhere,
Throw-aways that nobody care’s for stray in flocks,
city streets alluring calling them as they swagger along and find a great big scare,
Flashbacks of their puppy years torment them and they stumble along in shock,
Dogs crossing streets in traffic to find sanctity,
Alone, recollecting distant gaieties searching for hope and that far gone scent,
Car’s trampling bodies like insects snuffing lives out,
over and over the sounds of cracking bones amplified like the ringing bells of a
church,
Without pity,
suicide dogs, a sea of bloody mush,
Noticed, now, with only the head and snout intact by pedestrians,
With their snouts wide open as if to speak or yell.
They,
Now,
Listen!
Copyright © R Scorpious | Year Posted 2011
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