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