sewing a plant for my little dog

inside the moving train, the dog has spoken about an impending doom. its proud owner bursting with tears. after all those years of waiting she has finally learned to cry and swallow her own helplessness. still those primal cries come unheard. maybe they have all grown tired. the cries fading like a hissing sound of a belching truck. black smoke color her already tinted hair. what is there left to do, she asks. for she must have for sure exhausted all possible reasoning that lend only but a glint into an unappealing future. there or in there the end has been foretold. or so she thinks? once in a while, the cat comes out to play. reminding her of this little secret kept under her chest. grandma comes to shout with her swelling hands. sewn out of the mantle of order, a thread set loose. leaving behind a trail of unfolded stories. histories that never make sense. love that never finds a way. where have they kept the key?