Fog: A Poem

I've watched days stumble past -
Not bothering or risking a second glance.
Like the dead who don't know they've risen again,
They mean nothing even to themselves.

My dog is Pain - goes wherever go I -
A constant presence who loves to bite.
His coat is dirty, rough and sparse,
Unpleasant to touch, but familiar at heart.

A new day coming, another black pyre boat,
Offering embrace, as a thick winter coat.
So I bundle myself and duck my head,
And venture out into the shuffling dead...
... Pain at my side, running slightly ahead.