Every time I step outside <br />I look back at where he used to be <br />half-expecting to see a flash of chestnut brown fur, <br />to hear a low mangled howl, <br />or the sound of his bony tail <br />repeatedly banging against the shed's tin wall <br /> <br />I find myself searching for traces of him <br />but there's nothing left, <br />just his memory in my mind's eye <br />like a ghost that haunts my soul <br />though I'd prefer a more life-like version <br /> <br />As of yet, I haven't been able to face <br />the grief born of his death <br />or the weight of his absence- <br />Bronson's sepia dusk, is suddenly midnight <br />somber and hush swoop into the scene <br />but even the vultures hang their heads in mourning<br /><br />Nika McGuin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-sepia-is-no-more/
