To The Wolf,

You were awkwardly beautiful that day. Every word you spoke felt like howls. I did not know where that refined savagery came from.

You speak of things simple minds think as just stories and tales.

But, I heard you. I listened and felt the narrative dripping from your fangs. Those tasty gore you live for.

They thought it was a play.

I know that was your history. Your life. Stripped for all to see. Decorated with the carcass of a once glorious culture. But still, Atlantis sunk.

They were mesmerized with your poetry. Vibration of your voice resounds the home you’ll never see. Your pitch was so sullen and haunting, I can still feel the chill.

When you looked back on that day, did you see the burnt bridges and the dried tears etched in the ground?

Did you get to smell the smoke? Remember it burning your lungs and kissing your lips. Does it cloud your eyes? Follow the ashes – the only reminder of what used to lay there.

Come back to us. What do you see? What do you hear?

Nothing.

Only glazed memories, thrown into the deep. You smile as it reflect the sky, your feelings, yourself.

All the audience witnessed was incoherent sound coming out of a troubled soul. They saw insanity. I saw it too, and it was beautiful.

 

 

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