In the dead of winter, a wolf howls at the moon
In the silver light you can see its breath
A rabbit darts, a chase ensues
Caught his mark, blood does pool
Mix the red with the white, such is sustenance of life
Pain from hunger is calming
This is his life.
In the dead of night, my hand shakes, a pen stills it
My mind ignites and pounds
And paper calms it.
This is my life.

I live not the life of a thousand men, but rather the life of myself.
To compare me to even one is to underestimate me eternally.
And to underestimate that which has never before existed is an error of pre-judgement that will result in you existing forever unfulfilled.

Is it nature to change yourself for a mate even when that change exiles the ones who didn't require a change from you?
Changing for a mate that only lasts a fortnight, this sudden respect for an other
Makes everyone question, where is your brother?
It's not that I don't love my brother
It's what he becomes in the presence of the other that gives me all the bother