The Loneliest Wolf

[Revolte]

The loneliest of lonely wolves had charged
–paws encased in what once were gallops–
through the snowiness of his frail, wounded imagination
and, as all wolves are, he had been burdened and stubborn.

But as he ran through darkened white grasses
he had found that what he was hunting was not his next meal
instead, his prey was one he had loved,
but he had loved too long ago, and fear had struck him.

So the wolf–lonelier then any other–had stopped.
He had ran through images he had known not possible,
fantasies that had remained undamaged and tough,
and he had chosen, from fear or love he did not know,
to catch his breath and rest in silence.





*The love of a wolf will always be as it was in its prime, and a wolf that has love can not share it freely.