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This is a poem I wrote when I was 12 years old. It is about my dog, Shep, who had died shortly before writing.

Shep.

Shep,
Your fur like a golden beach,
the sand kicked up by the waves.
Your eyes like a young, warm, loving child…

Shep,
Your nose like a black shadow moving through a dark, damp street.
You moved like a swift dove in the warm summer breeze.
When your tail hit my legs like a whip on a block of wood…

Shep,
Now…
The picture lays on my desk, a symbol of your life.
The sound of your sharp, whining back past-midnight echoes in my head.
We shouted at you to shut up…

But now…
We want it back.
We miss it.
You’re dead.