#165

We are like dogs,

everyone and anyone afflicted with my

sickness—

Nope, let's not call it sickness.

It was never a disease to begin with;

circumstance is a better word.

We dream things

both in sleep and in passing,

we fall in love,

too easily and too deeply,

but we try to thrive on spite.

We know all too well

of so many unfamiliar things,

but the trivial remains too foreign to us.

We live on enthusiasm,

but much like a freshly lit candle

on a drearily and wickedly windy day,

our spark extinguishes too easily.

Oh! But don't be disheartened.

We thrive, and if we do it with all our hearts,

we will see to it

that it's done,

though

we do it in messes,

at moments almost too soon,

or sometime later,

only to regret it.

We breathe things in so easily,

but much like the breath,

our depth remains too shallow.

We do not go too wide,

but I, for one,

know we dive deep.

We are dogs.

Them and I,

maybe you, too?

But whatever—

we are too free-spirited to be contained

within a single vessel

called a dream.