Sometimes I don't know if

I'm a lamb, an amorphous white cloud
Drifting across dry, green oceans.  
The bringer of dreams, of peace
Woven in my wool.
I live slowly, softly
Until I don't -
And that's okay.  

Or a wolf, a sleek slick of oil
Running through thick trunks
That I smear with blood
I've stolen
Because I can't help myself.  
I cry at the moon
And I live like a falling star.  

Am I hiding beneath sheep's skin?
Wolf's pelt?
Am I nothing
More than a collection of both?

How could that be!
To be both, to be both is impossible -
                                                 Tenderness
Exists only in the absence of
                                                  Ruthlessness. ­ 

Yet here I am
Stealing your dreams
With my blood covered wool
Crying at the moon
With a slow, silent bray.  

                                                        ­                                                           Perhaps...
                           It would be best
                                                            ­                                                       I not exist
                          No, not at all.