by Frederick Kesner
Belying this despised state
you hunch upon shuffling feet,
pondering the crunch of browned leaves.
Burrowing this dusty soil
you hide beneath scurrying paws,
forgetting the crash of billowy waves.
Blowing out raspy breath
you pucker withered lips;
release cotton-downed doves.
Bellowing against the horizon
you herd the flock from grazing;
shackled gates embrace nightfall.