There's A Winter Dialogue With The Stars

There's a winter dialogue with the stars when darkness falls like a black sable fur hat over your nose, your tired eyes that have now long forgotten how to cry and you don't quite know where you've been, and a dog is howling because his master's gone he's dead, but he won't be found-for-an-age. Because he's a poet—sage who sleeps alone and only the pages of an old musty poem book shall know he's read his last moonlit chapter that it's come to an end like this day's sun. There's a winter dialogue-with-the stars only an owl ascertains as it claws an old ivy vine and hoots to its mate; the music is dead but there's still a ghost in the fire a near forgotten echo if you, just come to bed and retire. There's an old musty poem book, bookmarked that's been read a thousand times by moonlight under the stars with watery eyes, tired eyes that have now long forgotten how to cry and don't quite know where they've been, or even what they've seen beneath this rising sun. Except for the dog howling because his master is gone and knows it too won't be very long until it gets put down to sleep, and a black sable fur hat will cover its dry nose, its tired eyes eternally then after that, not-another chapter not another heady midnight nap, nor the choir of snoring sat on his master's lap. not another chiming second beating in his heart not another empty marrowbone minute wasted. Cashing a stick hurled thrown a long, long way to pass the time of day and return home.