The Arastain Wolf
Jc Fairchild
In depth’s darkness, his own soul holds The Arastain wolf roams Like a rider in the night, he scurries high and low
In mountain cracks and forest paths, looking for a place to go Valley wolves like cold earth brown rustle throughout the brush Twigs and branches from elms snapping with fury Cracking in their forceful breeze Bold like pounding rain, love in their thirst quenched by their ponds In packs huddled and warm
The Arastain wolf shifts his body low Fallen wood jabbing into his sides Honing a bridge into his internal cries The snowflakes drift down onto his wake Caressing a hand down his slim frame A stranger in his own home
Black weeded fur once well and combed, Now worn and patched, barbed with prickles Furthering down his spine in an outline, A ghoulish hand tracing above and smoking in gray fog He thinks Untouchable As he sits drifting back into the blanket’s cast of blackness of night On the world’s mantle East or west by morning, north by evening, south by dusk
They hold their hands with options, As he takes whichever that he pleases, Smiling fierce in his growing hunger Ravaging under their nails and calloused hands For something even bigger Does the freedom beast savor in his beauty Of no rigid lines or violent sighs That erupt into thrashings in the hour?
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