Of sharpened teeth from those by the waters, laced with outcries Or does he simply yearn, his head tucked to his weathered skin Making a bed amongst the thorns Snatching ticks between his paw pads An invasion upon his own home Pride fine tunes his fangs underneath the dreary night sky The dryness of blood lies beneath their heavy tongues No stars in sight, not even in his own eyes A twisted soup, feeding him full in the trial against his heart and bones As the bleary sun sinks down overhead He rests his eyes, his weary soul Until Death, sitting next to the bedroom in his heart Sighs and lets him go
My State
JMart
Pennsylvania: Mountains, rivers, lakes and streams Peaceful, quiet place.
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