My Mind's Dog Years Have Nearly Run Their Course

When my idle mind returns to its rightful place beside me, like a loyal, greying dog, equally drenched in the dowsing years, but wetter by the running rivers of memory overflowing, lost of a once true course by obfuscating blood of my breached heart, flowing over once fertile lands by the memory of tears exchanged, drowning in the silent depths gone still in the subsiding wake of your departure. And when my mental's final dog day has been spent—as I feel rising in me like the moon-crazed tide—where will this helmless bark wander, wither Will it beach upon forgetful sanda and roast to the last, with an apple in its smiling mouth, with unseeing lotus eyes glazed by the rays of the setting sun? Or will idleness finally fly like the last hanger-on of the mast-gulls before the country recedes forever like a hairline since flown? Heaving through ceaseless waves, working week by week, mindlessly, till my timber finally gives thoughtless way and breaks? The mass shivers in terrorful anticipation at the increase of age, encroaching my tongue for a taste of all time to come—a bitter draught. Or...an acquired taste? Not oblivion, but a clean slate? A burial—a seed? A stone, engraved—a tree, my heart carved anew in living bark? The passing of my young-old dogged mind—a second chance, my own waking adoption? Straight from the shelter; a hearty mutt mind is mine!