Out In The Cold

Instead of penning a poem if I had a heart of gold would have taken the puppy home dying out there in the cold. Useless all my rhyme creativity a veiled gloom doesn't matter the sublime if I can't make some room. Instead of penning a poem if my hands could lift up give it warmth of breast make there some room. I confess in full shame I don't have a heart of gold don't have the gut to pick the poor puppy dying in the cold. My hands smeared with inks metaphors timeworn old of plain and shameful lies while the puppy in the cold dies. If I had a heart of gold I would have put the pen down throwing my writes as trash give the puppy a home.