Dead Cat and Screaming Dog

Scream. Piercing. Tore me. Then silence. Guts on the motorway. Red. So red. Soft. Sight. Moved me. Swallowed. But how much can you swallow? Breathe. Without choking. Breathe. Really breathe. Disturbed. Forget grammar. Listen. The scream. Was piercing. It tore me. Nobody moved. Nobody listened. And what of my grandmothers face? And what of her frozen eyes and gaping mouth? And what of her soul and where it is now? And what of all those walking souls? And me. A walking soul? I smell him. I smell him now. I caught his scent on the breeze last night. He speaks of death. He hasn’t seen it. He hasn’t smelt it. It possesses him. Sometimes? All the time? He fears that he is next. He visits me in all my dreams. Do our souls meet when we are asleep?