PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Kept until the age moving is a chore,

you just want to be free again.

Everyday you give but a bit more,

umtil you can no longer refrain.

Behavioral changes can be observed,

and inferred the end's coming.

Controversy is to or not to end her,

but in both, deaths call is humming.

You've been withered by old age,

your fur more fragile with each breath.

Refused to turn to a new days page,

you deny life, end in watery death.

After the end, you're burnt to utter black,

your death sentence now cracked, shatters.

Shoved in a box, dignity you hopelessly lack;

now nothings's left, and now nothing matters.

Gone from this world, and never coming back,

but in my mind sits the vivid memory.

Of the one who I miss everyday and night,

my long gone, dead dog, my poor little Annie.