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Thrown to the dogs

Under the old catalpa tree in the backyard
The loyal best friends lie…
So many of them, buried without celebration

Replaced by the next
Another who will in its own turn
Be buried , inline, under the beautiful symbol
Of death and rebirth

Yet for those that lie there
There is no rebirth…
Theirs is not a cyclical path to follow.

The line continues, unknown to the new;
Pissing on a grave
That will one day be it’s own.