Cluster of Nits

A cluster of nits to be picked
Pieces of clawed scalp head your advance
Perpetual skin-fall.
The dog seems to be whining
Limp wrists drop their hands
From the bedside a single bone rolls across the floor
And three fingers point it's way.
Soft pads slowly scrape the floor
As nails turn in on themselves.
Times passing marked by each new tick
Sucking what little life it can from the scene.
The dog whimpers like a stray
With howls unheeded.
Biting at it's lord for sustenance
Till it's owner is no longer recognizable in it's presence.
No tricks to learn, new or old
Just empty resignation without choice.
Rotting skin keeps it warm for so long.
The eyes of the old dog go quiet
And we name death; neglect.