Running towards the wildMy dog,
can't grip,
the world around him,
he seems to slip,
from my grip,
so sad,
for him to gone mad,
away he goes,
only one way he knows,
towards the wild,
where he was a child,
the woods,
is where my dog stood,
on the hill,
is where he stood still,
on the grass,
is where he pass,
before he died,
he howls a foul cry,
then he stops,
and drops,
oh how I cried,
until my tears dried,
I walked home,
towards the dome,
walked in the fog,
and saw my dog,
I said ahoy,
then lost my joy,
for he is the spirit,
who came for a visit,
I fell on my knees,
and my dog bounced with glee,
then he faded,
and my memory degraded,
of my dog,
I went home and jogged,
to put myself at peace,
and let emotions release,
jogged to the wild,
where my dog was a child,
jogged toward the hill,
where he stood still,
jogged to the grass,
of where he passed,
I stopped,
and dropped,
my hands on the ground,
is when I found,
hope,
so I decided to cope,
with my lost,
that had a cost,
I woke,
then choked,
for I saw my dog,
in the fog,
on the rock he sat,
I tried to give him a pat,
but my dog just disappeared,
as fast as he appeared,
I went back,
to my shack,
then I heard his howl in the woods,
where he stood,
said goodbye,
and tried not to cry,
heard the paws,
of his claws,
scraping the ground,
as if he heard a sound,
then he just ran,
towards the wild.
Inspired by Jack London's "Call of the Wild."
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I spent 3 days making this poem.
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