The black dog is howling at the gates
and wants to be let in; his strong body
hurls against the fragile enclosure.
He is so alive; his life force is
overwhelming; his breath so hot and
fierce I can almost feel it; my gaze
is directed at the porch where he waits
and then your voice permeates everything
and you ask me to look at you instead,
so I turn my head to gaze into your agate
eyes, with my gold-flecked greens, and
I say, "But he's out there."

You agree, but you still want me to look
at you, and love makes me obey, but so
does my infinite preference to focus on
you instead, and I focus on what you're
saying, and as I do, the howls dissipate,
the primal life force disappears, the
strong body stops crashing into this space
where I sit, wrapped up in you, with you
wrapped around me, and it's over.

But we both know he'll be back, that he's
never really gone; he's out there and he
could reappear at any time; I could be
ticking away, going about my day, and
suddenly, he'll darken the porch again.

And we both know you'll always be here
when that happens, to hold me, you'll
whisper to me that you love me, you'll
remind me of all of the good in the world
and I'll always believe you, I'll always,
always, always take your hand and let you
lead me out of this morasse of darkness
because you are my life and my shield
and you'll never let the black dog get me.

Penned by my hand on the 4th of Valnuary, in the year 868 AF.