The Remedy

It seems for love to flourish, it must be reciprocated

By two individuals with fully functional hearts.

Each half in the whole must be, in their own respect,

Complete. For when there is an unequal abrasion,

In the equation that is fidelity, there may not be finality,

And it seems entirely likely that one of the two parties,

May never venture into the realm of self-revelation.

The law of mutual interaction, which guides attraction,

Is a flawed condition—for adulation commits itself

As anguish—an ache perpetuated like a bullet shot…

Not as a necessity, but as the result of mistimed affection.

Perhaps, for passion to fully exist, it must be elected

By two partners who both feel peace of mind—

So there is balance betwixt the happiness of both lovers,

Where pride and ecstasy can, and will always, coexist.

Trepidation of the heart is a dangerous concoction,

A mixture of emotions which should not be stirred—

Love is not a remedy, rather, it is a reward—

A gift exchanged between two paramours.

The Pasture

Today, your childhood rests gently

Beneath a blanket of freshly fallen snow,

But do not despair, for the garden you used

To grow, is waiting for you, my dear.

The lilacs and brambles long to feel

Your gentle grace pass through their branches—

And someday they hope to reminisce

Again with the child who they’ve come to miss.

The pink and purple pastures, are waiting

Beneath a winter glaze—the flowers know

You will return to pluck the prettiest petals,

The gift they have been born to give.

And in this meadow, when the frost has lifted,

And you meander once again, with a grin

Widened in glee across your face, the

Bluebirds will flutter down on weightless wings,

And melodically sing of how they're glad you came.

Below the weight of winter, the grass is green—

The same path, the one you played upon as a kid,

Is sitting idly, waiting for the first sign of spring.

Behind the clouds the sky emulates a cerulean hue,

And pauses patiently, until you return once more

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Man Without A Name

The Man Without A Name

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The walls must be closing in, for with each heartbeat the room seems to become more enclosed. Perhaps in a few minutes from now the man, who for the purpose of this passage possesses no name, will be able to reach across the breadth of this dungeon and feel the cool plaster press him into nonexistence. At this moment, the entire world, outside of these confines, is a figment of his imagination. Staying here is safe, if he does not wish to be sad, he does not have to be sad. If he does not wish to be happy, he does not need to be happy. There is nobody to satisfy, besides himself. There is nobody who will be able to witness his flaws and his blunders.

He tears at his hair with grim expression, as he begins to pace nervously. He is not somebody who is normally bothered by claustrophobia, but even he starts to become anxious as he begins to wonder if the ceiling truly may have been several inches higher when he first entered. His current state of mind is so intense and horrific that he feels both euphoric and intensely elevated. Still, he is plagued by a cyclic hopelessness and lack of purpose. He cannot recall the last time he has lain his head to rest; his eyes are burning simply from his current state of wakefulness. He wishes to sleep, but he is afraid of what may occur if he misses a moment of this life, which currently only exists within the confines of his room.

I can only imagine what he would say to me if he knew I am sitting at the dining room table, behind the barrier of his door, in the world he, at this moment, is not a part of. I am lightly engrossed in a riveting tale that I am currently amidst the process of writing. I sit, with a tea cup near enough to my right hand that I can sip it at my leisure, but not so near that I may risk spilling it across the laptop I am typing at. I can perfectly picture the anger that would arise if the man (who still remains without a name) knew that I am feebly engaging my greatest effort into attempting to portray the sentiment I know that he is currently feeling. I wish to tell him that I have expressed the same sadness and terror in my life—and yes—I have given in to the same darkness. I yearn to tell him that there have been points in my life too I was sure that I would not survive. I have felt the same emptiness as him.

I have attempted to knock on his door several times prior to this moment, but each time I was met with silence. I know that he is still alive only by the sound of his feet pacing the floor, and the occasional misstep which causes the floor boards to creak. No, I will not be bothering this man anymore, moreover he will meet me on his own terms. Eventually his door will crack open, and I will witness him sluggishly stepping towards the kitchen. I will meet his gaze and portray to him my utter understanding. I feel as though our thought processes are eerily similar, even if our behaviour manifests in different manners. He is feeling the darkness, and letting it consume him, while I am using his darkness to rid myself of my own. I am documenting his darkness so the devil may relieve me of my own. If I was capable of remorse or guilt perhaps I would cease my efforts to capture his sentiment and instead turn my attention to being a close friend, a companion, a confidant, a comrade, or crony.

Back in the room, the nighttide is consuming, the man has never felt more alone in the entirety of his existence. He is captive within the limits of his own imagination; he cannot leave this room for he is afraid to see what may be waiting for him. His thought pattern is abstract and sporadic, as if he is moments away from finding ultimate meaning but does not process the thought processes to let it out. His mind is being held back, by his own inferior intelligence. The room is collapsing, his mind is collapsing. Breathing is a chore. This is death, this is the feeling of giving up—to not have the energy to lift a finger, let alone his entire figure. He collapses into a crumple on the floor of his room, letting out a lone whimper. The combination of lack of nutrition and sleep has left him feeling weak and afraid. He fears he may never be able to amble back to his feet.

The four walls continue their shift towards each other and suddenly the room is the size of a small closet. He is left alone in the darkness while his thoughts—the depressive cognitions, which plague him still, become all consuming. His brain pulsates, while thoughts radiate, he is overwhelmed by a momentary wave of grief so profound that he can feel his entire body shudder. Alone… Alone, what is the definition of being alone? At all moments our minds are simply our own, no matter who we stand next to, in essence we are always lost in a single mind. No matter how close we may be to another individual we are still our own person. Alone! We are so alone at every moment of our existence, from the day we are born to the day we pass away. But for whatever reason, at this instant, the man feels particularly deserted in his isolation. He feels passionately hopeless.

The human mind is such a beautiful entity, the brain’s involution is so intense, that when it is damaged—when it is bruised—it can turn life into a nightmare, akin to our most surreal dreams. Can we all relate, to the pains and tribulation this world has to offer? In the darkness the man starts to wonder if every mind is hardwired to think with the same methodology as his. And I, still sitting quietly at the table, find myself with thoughts that I assume are truly alike to his own. Are we all searching for ultimate meaning, the purpose of why we have been put on the face of this earth? Are we all destined for something greater than ourselves, or is it possible that we can die with our questions unanswered? What if we are living a dream from which death is the only awakening?

            The man’s consciousness becomes a contrast between being awake and faintly asleep. He lays on the floor, in a heap, desperately searching for the reason… The reason he was cursed with a mind that never ceases to rest. He asks himself why he cannot find happiness like many of his peers, and instead, he is on an endless quest for perfect understanding. I too, have had similar thoughts and have dived into a similar frustration.

            Time is an illusion, an entity that does not currently exist. To me, my perception of a minute is as it has always been. The clock ticks at the same rate it always has. But on the other side of the door, the man’s conceptualization of a minute is akin to my perception of a year. Although both our watches may depict the same set of numbers, a moment to me is not a moment to the man. In the time it has taken me to write this page, the man has lived a decade or more—he has wept a lifetime of tears and smiled a lifetime worth of happiness. I can’t help but wonder where the true psychosis may lie. Is he the one who has lost contact with reality or have I? I shiver as begin to question the philosophic boundaries of what is real and what is not.

            The room the man resides in has transformed again from the size of closet to the size of a kitchen cabinet. He lies with his knees tucked into his chest and can concurrently feel the ceiling, floor, and walls pushing against him. In his reality he resides in a box in the middle of the universe. If he was able to leave the confines of his prison he would step into space, a million miles away from earth. He whimpers, unknowing that in my reality he is only a door away. In my reality I can clearly depict the sound of his whining, and I must admit, with each utterance my heart feels as though it is skipping a beat. I am oversorrowed so much so, that I hesitate in my chronicling. And for the time it takes for me to inhale one breath I even feel what may be described as guilt.

            The whining continues, as the man continues to be pushed from existence. The walls are pushing again him in such an intense manner that he can feel his bones start to break. His eyes, which are void of tears, from a lack of fluids, blink uncontrollably. The man, who I would now like to give a name, may have otherwise given up at that moment if it had not been for our two worlds suddenly becoming intertwined.

            My typing become more furious as I attempting to capture the scene that was about to unfurl with perfect sentiment.

“Fight it!” I yell as I bang the keys at a near random fashion.

“Fight it!” I shout again, surprised that I am still able to forms words with my fingers. The table sways so acutely that the teacup tips off the table and shatters into two nearly equal halves next to my feet.

“Fight it!” I shout with an odd combination of fascination, agitation, and excitement.

I’m not sure if my voice carried all the way to the man but something within his head clicked at that instant. As much as I would like to take credit for his revolution, deep within my heart I knew my words were only meant for me. The man begins to push on the walls which are enclosing him, and he even comes across the fortitude to stand up. He pushes the ceiling back to its rightful place far above him and stretches his unmalleable joints which had been folded to nearly the point of compression. In a matter of seconds the room returns to its original girth and he is left alone to once again to walk about. He languishes the door with an innocent visage. His greatest desire at this moment is to do nothing other than to feel the brass of the door handle beneath his fingertips. He steps towards the edge of his imprisonment, and stares at his impending freedom, which is the doorway. He places his hand on the handle—it feels exactly as he imagined it would. He desperately wants to let his tears flow, but given his dehydration, his tears would likely come out as grains of sand.

The door opens, and I stop typing momentarily until I am certain that the man has truly conquered his demons and floundered back to my reality. When I meet his gaze I am startled by the salient expression he wears on his face. I expected him to look defeated and in a psychotic state of terror. But his eyes, the green-grey evanescent orbs in his possession gleam with a victorious sheen, and odd contrast to the racoon like circles on his face which signal his fatigue. He smiles, perpetuating his delirium—a hapless grin that both terrifies me and make me jealous that I do not possess it.

“To the man with no name, I ask, are you okay? Are you alive? Are your footsteps treading reality? Have you defeated the darkness?”

He says nothing, but I am still assured that his demons have passed him, due to the sparkle in the corner of his eye that long ago disappeared. He collapses into the seat across the table from me and rests his forehead against both of his hands. I examine him momentarily, with my head slightly cocked to the left, before being lifted from my seat. Gingerly, I step towards the kitchen to pour a glass of water. After placing two ice cubes within the glass I walk back to the dining room and place the glass back in front of the man.

“Welcome back,” I say to him. He nearly smiles.

The only sound that exists between us thereafter is the sound of my keyboard being bludgeoned by my hands as I tried to capture the precarious interaction between me and the man who still has not been named.

DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

In The Darkness

In the darkness, nobody notices—

Nobody witnesses the fantastic feat

Of a grown man tirelessly weeping,

And clearing tears with his sleeve.

He is left alone, to languish greatly,

While fully aware that nobody cares—

There are no passersby to ponder

Upon the sight before their eyes.

The man is left to count footfalls,

And the seconds until he reaches home—

His mask cracks—breaks down—as

He tries, desperately, to find peace,

Or at the very least, a justification

That may explain the giant lump

Which seems to form in his throat,

Causing anguish with each breath.

This man wishes to disappear—

To have the rain rinse away his tracks,

And hide the embattlement within.

A Lack of Speech

Silence is a secret language, of languish,

Of longing that exists—it perpetuates

The stillness between heartbeats,

Which could be deemed, without reason,

The period between fallen teardrops—

Dewdrops on eyelashes, gumdrops

To childlike innocence. But our pedantry

Is of the pedigree of our passion—

Our heart-place is replaced,

With the purity of butterfly wings,

Even on days we feel disgrace—

For as long as we ache, life will always

Be a maze—an amazing world of

Wonderment we behold.

Silence is the cause of delusion

And merriment. It is the pavement

On introverted streets—it is both

Disdain and hope—it is rebirth and death,

It is sad and a gift—a gloomy life

And a constant restrain. It is the most

Distinct flaw and a saving grace.
      DannYetman
www.yetmanoetry.blogspot.com

A Bitter Taste

We have all been born with the same lusts,

And although it may be a sad fact,

It plagues all of us—Our emotions!

Are predictable and scripted, with the same

Bitter twists—the same thoughtless quirks.

We are all evil, spreading our nefarious

Deeds at different speeds—crushing spirits

To improve our own value—to rekindle

Our flickering souls, the sadness dwelling

Within our hearts. We are all selfish,

Looking to tango with the most attractive

Tail available to us—we our cursed,

Predisposed for narcissistic deaths,

Written in Lucifer’s clutches—Our lives

Will end equally miserable—equally unfulfilled

For there is no man on this earth

Guided purely by good intentions—

We are all living arrogant, self-centered

Delusions, where none of us are

Villains… How misguided.

We can’t all be protagonists.

         DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Self-absorption of Man (Sonnet I)

I am victim of the same vainglory,

As many men before—I often sigh

Arrogant breaths as I write the story

Of penitence I watch wither and die.

From conceited lips come sputtered speeches—

I am guilty of my own thoughtless ink,

Spilt to satisfy the inner reaches  

Of my thoughts, as deep as my kitchen sink.

I have lived the self-absorption of man—

The feeling, I assume, plagues every mind

That has ever thought since time first began—

I regret the ego I’ve not declined.

I have turned my back on kindness—the light—

Now I wish to grasp it with all my might. 

    DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Lost and Frozen (The Garden II)

Lost and Frozen (The Garden II)

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The Garden (Part 1)

There are a set of eyes, across the room, staring at me with such lust and passion that I have no doubt they belong to an individual who loves me unconditionally. I cannot hold the gaze, my own vision falters as I begin to wonder if I will truly be able to reach such a state with my own heart. I shift my eyes once more to align my visage with the face of the beast who still stares back with innocence and naivety. There is no jealousy within the optics of this creature, I could abuse it, mistreat it, or cause it physical harm that it does not deserve, yet it would still come back, seemingly happy, with forgiveness and benevolence in its heart. 

            The dog barks, with a coy grin, perhaps for no other reason than to remind me that it is still in the room. Oddly enough, I smile back, but I think there is sadness on my face. At this moment I portray an individual with a broken heart. Pessimism consumes me, and keeps me stuck in a spiral of bitter remorse. The dog in the room—the brown and white being—evokes thoughts that have been plaguing me since the beginning of my days. This animal, this critter, this soul across from me is the optimist while I am its other half. The dog and I stare at one another—together we have a holistic view or the world. But, in truth, we are both fine. The dog is satisfied being a dog, and I am satisfied being somewhere between a boy and a man. My brain continues to think, my heart continues to feel warmth, and my body has survived defeat.

            The last time I was in this room, the last time I stared into this dog’s set of eyes, was on the night my mind was so adrift, that I felt as though my thought processes were so mixed up and backwards I was positive I would never be unfuddled again. I sat, in the exact spot I am in at this moment; my head was spinning. I was weak and vulnerable, my heart had an open wound, and was leaving a trail of sanguine fluid behind me as I stood up to walk the city streets. Through the darkness, I desperately tried to hold onto my beliefs, the morals and guidance that I have built my life around. But they were slipping, and I was ready to give in to the evil all around me. I wished to break every sacred vow that I laid upon myself.

            My footstep brought me in circles, I had no destination, and I was unsure of what to do with myself—all that I knew was that it was vital that I continued to walk. If my footsteps ceased, and I was left alone in my head, I knew, it could easily be the death of me. I had grown callous and confused, I was desperately afraid of my own shadow. Looking back, I’m relatively certain that what I sought was acceptance, belonging, and another human voice to linger with my own to wed together in the art of conversation. My fingers went numb first, followed by my ears and then toes. Eventually my entire body felt as though it had succumbed to the frigid night’s air. I knew that I could not expose myself to the elements any longer, so I vowed to duck indoors at the next opportunity.

            I came across an Irish pub that I strolled into once before, nearly a year previous. My heart was feeling as amiss on that night as it was on this night. I met a man, during my previous encounter as this establishment, he was three times my age and ten times wiser. He talked me through my heartbreak then, and elated my soured soul. It seemed far too coincidental that I ended up here again. Even though I wandered with unguided destination, I could not help but wonder if I was guided here by some mystique force. Perhaps I returned, to seek him out and to once again let him into my head. I wanted him to rip apart the cobwebs which always seem to keep me from thinking with perfect clarity.

            When I took my first steps into the pub, I had a sinking feeling within my chest. My already dampened spirits were further supressed when I found I would have to pull up a stool at the bar alone.   

            “What will ya be having tis evening?” The bartender asked, as he cantered towards me. In all honesty, I neither cared nor desired to spend my time giving it any thought.

“Whatever you want,” I responded. He mumbled something before turning his back to me, and based on his gruff exterior, it probably wasn’t too pleasant.

            Perhaps it was just my imagination taking the reigns of my sanity, but the next time I turned my head to the right I was met with a figure, cradling a glass of scotch like it contained the secrets of the universe.

            “Excuse me sir,” I said to him.

            “Yes, young man,” he responded with a sly intonation.

            “I am not sure if you remember me or not, for I am sure that I do not give a lasting impression—”

            “You underestimate the effect of our previous conversation. I very much do remember you, and all the trouble brewing within your chest. Now tell me, what is the current condition of your heart?”

            I wasn’t quite sure how to answer his question. I opened my mouth on several occasions before getting the words to fit just right. “My heart… Is vapid at this moment. I am not sure what to believe anymore, I am not sure what is right… What is wrong? There are so many people in this world, and all offer a unique perspective. But so many of them are poison! They belittle your ideas, they belittle your desires and dreams and make you feel worthless. And that is how they manipulate you into their way of thinking. I know I sound sardonic and cynical, but I can’t help but look upon the world with a glum outlook… How can this be all there is? How can there just be life and death and nothing more?”

            “Young man, you may feel as though you are the first person to have their mind tainted, you may feel like the first person to question the purpose of our existence—to search for answers beyond deities and wishing upon stars. You feel as though a piece of you has been taken, you feel as though your heart is missing, but it’s been with you all along. You are old enough to see the imperfections in the world but not so old that you can understand them. We are all searching for the answers to our questions, for we are all searching for ultimate meaning. We are all searching for the reason we have been put on this planet.” He put his hand on my shoulder, and let it linger as I searched for an appropriate response.

            “I like to believe that there is good in this world, as well as evil. Nobody is purely evil, just as nobody is pure at heart. We all full somewhere along the spectrum,” I said to him.

            “I believe you are correct.”

            “But this system we live in… It is not fair! Why is it that there are people in the world with nothing but good intentions who die prematurely, who never find what it is they are looking for? But there are people out there, selfish people who would sell their souls to get ahead in life, who find happiness, find love, and find success. My initial belief system, my innate viewpoint that I was given, is that good will always prevail. Kindness is the methodology to capture hearts, gratitude is the secret to happiness and success. But each day I wake, and the more people I speak to, the more I start to think that I have everything backwards. How can lying, cheating, and being an awful person pave the way to happiness?”

            “Life is neither straight forward nor complete. Your youthfulness betrays you. What you do not yet possess is patience. You may grow callous, you may become more cynical than anybody who has ever lived, but you cannot possibly hope to change your predisposition. If you think that you will wake up one day and suddenly be able to look your peers in the eyes and lie bluntly, you are sadly mistaken. If you think you will wake up one morning and suddenly abandon your quest for self-improved you are much more disillusioned than you seem.”

            “Why not? Why can’t I hire an experimental neurosurgeon to cut the neurons in my brain that control reason, restraint, and my inhibitions? Why do I seem to have a destiny to always give my heart away in the most inappropriate instances? I am starting to feel like a chronicler, foreordained to watch the world pass by through my own paradoxical eyes. But what of you? What of you, who has observed a near infinite amount of life and death? How have you gotten past the wayward drifting of those special individuals who, year after year, continued to claw at your heart?”

            “There is no secret. There is no magical remedy which will give you back your innocence, your childlike view of the world. Each time your heart is cracked or chiselled, it will not grow back, but instead be forever damaged. The secret is to continue living, to ignore the itching, the wishing, and the sentiment that exists no longer.”

            “But that cannot be life,” I said to him.

            “C’est la vie.”

            “No, we are not simply living to patch up holes in our character. What kind of life would we be living if it was one without true love? What kind of life would it be if there are no consequences for manipulating and sabotaging people? At this moment—at this very moment—each breath is a struggle, my mental acuity is failing me and I feel more dead than alive. But still, I cannot let go of my mindset. Even if I am fighting a losing battle, even if I am destined to be broken hearted each and every day until I pass away, I refuse to believe that there is nothing more to this life. If I stopped believing that good will always prevail, I would have nothing left to hang onto. My mind would flounder, because the lines of fiction and reality would have become so intermingled that there would be no way to separate them.”

            “We all have our vices, we all have beliefs that keep us sane, if you need yours in order to—”

            “I don’t just need my beliefs, I need them to be true! I can’t believe a lie.”

            “In this life there is no truth, there are no lies. There are just people, who walk around as zombies, each and every day of their lives. They don’t think; they don’t reason; they just are.”

            “Will it ever change? Is there any hope for us?”

            “No, there definitely is not,” the man responded with certainty.

            We two men sat in silence, for what felt like half the night. There was a gentle scratching as the bartender wiped down the counter with an already soiled rag. I can even vividly remember the sound of the flames in the fireplace crackling. The man I was sitting with finished off his drink and lifted his coat from the seat next to him, as if to signal that it was time for him to leave. And then, without a word, he was gone. I am still not sure if he was actually with me that night, or if he was just a phantom that I contrived to satisfied my basic human needs, to evade my loneliness.

            “One more?” The bar tender asked me, probably hinting that he wants to close for the night.

            “Ahh… Yes, I am finished, I believe,” I responded, not totally certain.

            I rose from my seat and walked towards the door, lingering by the hearth on my way out. I took a final scan of the pub, to deeply encode it into my brain and then I left, I stepped back into the winter night. The physical numbness that overcame me before I entered started to flirt with me again. I began to hurry home, at a pace between a fast canter and slow jog. But eventually, on my quest for warmth, I was distracted. A pining within my chest began to gnaw at my heart. The feeling was so pronounced that I had to stop walking completely. I paused, staring at my own breath in the cold air. I switched directions, and instead of returning to my residence, where I could sit down for a steaming glass of tea, I continued onwards, towards the one place in the world where I know I can find tranquility.

            The garden was lit by a single lantern, which illuminated the snowy flowerbeds. The birds may have migrated months ago, and to any passersby it may have appeared grey and dreary, but to me it was simply radiant. To me, it looked just as it did the first time I came here to rest my weary form.

It was the most beautiful summer evening I could have imagined. The warbles and chickadees lost their chronic shyness as I sat next to them. They flew from flower to flower and sang gaily, as if they knew that I was gazing upon them and they wanted to give me the most profound performance they could muster. My heart was so full of joy, that it would have taken an army of men to remove me from the seat. I sat there, contently, writing about the beauty I had been fortuitous enough to witness.

            The second time I came here, a year later, I was not alone. Of all the people whom I could have brought, I found myself next to the individual who held my heart during my first trek here. And I must admit, she held my heart still. I told her such, but the words were not soon enough and before I had time to blink she was gone again. This time, the rain drenched us both, and although the flowers did not seem to want to bloom, the chickadees were still extroverts and the warblers still seemed happy to have company.

            Then, amidst my third trip here, I was shaking and convulsing from the cold. The flowers were buried, the birds long ago left and there was not another living soul as far as the eye could see. Still, it was as peaceful as ever.

            Pending frostbite eventually lifted me from my seat, and before I blinked I was home again. The cup of tea I had been fantasizing about since I left the pub was finally in my hand as I came to rest on the old red sofa in the living room. I crashed down into the seat, almost spilling the cup in my hand. I looked across the room, to the dog who gazed at me. That was less than a day ago, but it might as well have been a lifetime previous.

            Today, I sit in the same seat, staring at the same dog. He does not come running when I call his name, but instead, he walks calmly before jumping in my lap.

“I know you can’t understand what I am saying, but I have a question for you—what is the meaning of life? I wish I was better at articulating my feelings, but I feel like I am looking for something. I feel like we are all looking for something, but what is it? Could it be love? Companionship? Acceptance? We are all in love with somebody, even you are in love with somebody. I am so tired of this life, I am tired of looking for one person to make me happy—one person who I can reciprocate that elation back to. Is that what we all one? One person who can love us for who we are? You are just a dog but even you know who makes you happy. Myself, I am not smart enough to know what I want in this world. I had my heart broken once on a day like today, the memory is still so fresh that it brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. Do you, a tiny puppy, understand these feelings I am trying to describe to you? If you do, bark or shake my hand. Do something to let me know that your head isn’t empty…”

            The dog shifts its head, in such a way as to make eye contact with me. The dog doesn’t say a word, perhaps because it is a dog, but he gives me a look that nearly makes me gasp. There is such human emotion tattooed across his face that for a second I completely forget that he is not human.

            “Thank you.” I say to the creature. “Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this is the greatest love man is able to feel. The unconditional bond that exists between you and me is unbreakable. Could I—or any other person on this planet—ever been filled was such a pure emotion, such altruism towards another person?”

            I pause, upon posing the question, which in all honesty was meant to be ironic. I let it circle around in my cognition before thoughtfully providing a response. “Yes… Yes, I believe that it is.”

            The dog rests its chin on my lap before closing its eyes and letting itself drift from conscious thought. I place my right hand behind his ear and begin to rhythmically stroke the fur that is draping down. I become as peaceful as the dog, content with the resolution I have finally obtained. 

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com