Those wicked days that pressed. Persistent. Pervasive. Such deep darkness. Such endless exhaustion. The numbness was a disconnect. Fatigue, to sleep. To dream. Aches, the pains of mind and bone. And her dog stayed faithful, never begging, ever quiet, a constant breath, and they waited out that wicked dark depression.

This ancient feeling
Like dying constellations
Her black dog. Black dog.

Written for #thewildness Day 4: a magical encounter with a (wild – though not in this case) animal. Artwork is created using AI Midjourney. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.