Behind the dirty glass window panes
of the scratched French doors
are two pairs of vacant, lonely eyes
staring back with child-like wonder
and looking into their eyes, I find the darkness
ethereal, as if I had fallen through endless stars
into the deep plane of non-existence
hiding behind a black hole, to a time
where the only words that mattered were
sit, stay, come, treat, and good boy.
where the only worries in our brief life
were whether our family would make it home.
where the outside world was left behind
and we lived in the sanctity of our four walls.
To run free again, with the wind pulsing
like the hot breaths of a lover
through strands of golden hair.
And I wonder if, staring back at me,
they can see the light of our city on a hill,
shining bright with beacons of false hope
for the rest of the galaxy to see,
or perhaps they just see me,
their loyal friend,
stepping away from the window now,
not knowing whether I will come back.
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