Poetry in Motion

Wolves

Midnight creeps into view and the fog weighs heavily on my eyes,

Walking in the last sacred place that has not been tainted,

Divine in its authenticity and designs of reserved grandure,

The barren surroundings and decrepit structures painted,

The snow begins to fall onto the branches of the willow tree,

The night calls out to me and the wilderness stirs with sentience,

The wolves begin their decent from the mountains approaching,

Encircling me waiting for my integral compliance,

I fear them and their feral eyes and primal rituals,

I fall to my knees grasping at the soil in sincere repentance,

My eyes reflect those of an innocent pure soul,

They beckon me to the edge of the dense treeline in diligence,

I follow hesitantly through the darkness of the forest,

The wolves gather in a clearing around a beautiful brown fawn,

Heads bowed in apology at having to steal a life in its prime,

The night grows further from the forest and so breaks a new dawn.