My soul sits 
looking at me 
through the eyes 
of my dog 

What are we doing here
inside these 4 walls,
when we could be out there
being our wilder selves?

The pull is all consuming,
letting no other thought
rest in my mind,
making all actions
awkward and tortured

But where is that 
wild place 
that can fulfil 
this longing,

where wolf 
still hunts deer,
beaver 
still build dams,
and eagle 
soars in the sky,

They are the
ghosts
who’s presence
I crave

I die a thousand 
of their deaths
every time, 
these fur bound eyes 
gaze up at mine.