I am a wolf.
I am a wild thing.
The deepest throes of the wreckage rebuke my wildness
And wish it ill.
But I will growl and bay.
I will bare my fangs.
I will attack to kill,
And we will survive because of it.
Snow glows on the full mooned peaks
And water rushes, hushed and hurried.
I smell blood in the frost
And move like shadow.
Winged and sweet, the blood baits my urges
And I crest a hilltop thicket.
It's there, splayed,
Hoping against hope,
And I bound, bound to the injured thing.
Bound to the broken thing.
Bound to the delicate thing that hopes against hope
And looks at my eyes, seeing light beyond light.
The wild thing lopes and huffs,
Waiting for fresh night and fresh wildness.