Hounds Poem by Sven Stears

Somewhere in all our minds,
At the end of a mile long staircase,
full of trips and hazards,
is a thirsty dog.
And I know he bit your wrists, boy,
but he only did it to lead you away
from the monsters on the landing,
From the growing growling,
Snapping and snarling,
So consider your stigmata,
dogmatic,
because holy or otherwise,
its easy to wonder why
old ghosts don't die,
when you wont let them rest.
So let him dirty
your furniture,
he's wet from pulling you a shore.
For some,
treading water is the same as drowning.
And when you're taking on water,
All you can do is keep on paddling.
Its been sink or sin for a while now.
So keep an eye out for the light house,
because it's hard to see the friendly faces
In a sea of smiling sharks.
They circle in a pit of
unrequited doves,
bad choices,
terrible clichés,
and tenuous extended metaphors.

It doesn't matter though.
The defenders of Diogenes,
and his lonely bathtub,
were won over long ago,
when we were 'more' than
the some of our hearts,
all spring and itch,
getting started on the road.
So cast away the stop sign,
drink deep and celebrate,
the Doghouse is a good place to be,
but there's monsters on the landing.