Perfecting Cruelty

I'm that dog sitting in the rain over his best friend's grave. I've waited fifteen years, for your spirit to brush against my spirit again, either in the flesh or dream, I believe some brown thumbed clod pruned your heart cut too often-to deeply-honed his cruelty on your vulnerabilities. Made a shrine from your broken pieces, Tossed you to the darkness cleaved your light then offered you a blanket of scratchy regret,,, I'm still waiting though, like a wet dog at the mouth of a cave too afraid to enter That I may discover something unrecognizable....frightening.