Traveling alone,
Down the forest path.
Fur rippling in the wind.

Putting my muzzle to the wind,
I can smell his scent.
The boy I followed.
The boy I saved.

Intrigued by his cobalt eyes,
His power to use his rifle.
I never knew such attraction,
Would be true.

Trusting my instincts..
To find him.
I howl to the sky.
Rippling the forest floor.

I will find him,
He must know..
That I was that girl.

That girl who watched him,
That girl who laughed at his jokes.
Im wolf,
*But also human..

I see Thoreau as a token
You and my airplane ticket.

I never get it why you only declare your love for Thoreau
Instead of something darker, Hunter S Thompson,Marijuana
Or me.

Traveling in Denmark now, I guess you'll eventually head to the Netherlands.
Where your true colors shine through your eye socket.

Oh, so I still admire you
Dreaming of having a walk with you beside Walden
Having Arizona ice tea in the dessert

I beg Thoreau to win me an airplane ticket to
The unknown

While we walk under sheets of rain
No words hanging between us
Do not think this is serene
Every drip hit and crack detritus

While we walk under shades of hemlocks
Capsized in escaping rays
Never step on droughts
They don't belong in the phrase

While we say this gonna last
But do not even try
Never let tears fall onto grass
You know why we don't take up fights

While we're stuck in blank
I promised you won't slip
And I went down in a bang
Just before a deer could leap

The Unicorn appeared from the Light
radiant, young and full of promise
her magical horn
shone bright in the sun,
mirrored the moon

She appeared from the light
to startled villagers
they could do naught but stare
enthralled by her magic and beauty

The village elder Elder reached out his Hand
overcome by joy, he couldn't resist
blinded by her exquisite beauty,
he couldn't help but reach to her
and reluctantly, the Unicorn moved forward
full of mistrust,
she took a chance...

But, unbeknownst to them
the Hunter was peering at her too –
through his rifle’s telescope!

The deafening boom
fell the Unicorn to the ground
and sent the villagers fleeing in panic

Into the Sacred circle
the Hunter stepped with muddy boots,
with his cruel Knife he cut her horn
then drank from her pure blood
as she lay on the ground
while her horn was a trophy
lost between a hundred others

The villagers tried with all their craft
to heal the Unicorn and restore her Life.
But her scars remained
her blood stayed cold
like marble, her heart hardened.

evermore the villagers lived
with the wounded Unicorn
who was filled with hate towards the Hunters
and ever she kicked
at the village Elder,
mistaking him as the Hunter

Yet, there is always Hope
while the Unicorn grazes
between the thorns and thistles
the Elder still prays and Hopes
that their magical Unicorn would be restored to them

The prey is surrounded by hunters waiting to make their next move. To make the light leave the preys glancing eyes and the blood pour out from it's veins leaving it dead for them to rip apart. It's only appreciated when it's gone down their throats, into their stomach and as the hunger starts again the poor creature is already forgotten and the hunt for a new prey has begun.

As i run i know im not going
to give up without a fight
i come to a clif
and skid to a stop
i hear them not far
behind me, caressing my
name gently
theyre right behind me now
i turn around and look at the
two people
they stand, bows ready
i crouch and snarl
but they still dont falter
one of the men shoots
and the arrow hits my shoulder
i feel the smooth crimson
run down my right leg
i cry out but the blood
comes out still
the other man shoots, it hits my
left leg i feel the blood
from my previous wound become
matted and rough as it dries
the pain is searing through
my body like poisen
i snarl again and jump at the
closest man.

Hes too slow and i bend
down and chomp on his neck
i feel the sweet blood
explode in to my mouth
i crouch there for a second
then pounce onto the other man
i knock him over but
he slits my stomache open
i feel like throwing up
i cough a little bit of dark, wet
sickly red blood comes out.

I look back up at the man i snarl then run
this time I crouch close to the ground
i jump and crunch down on his soft head
his eyes popout, his brain taste so good<3
i call out to Life and she slowly
crawls out and goes to the other man
she rips open his chest and eats his
intestines first, then his heart
she savors the heart
after she licks the blood from the
ribcage clean and naws on the bones.
I see her take the head in her paws
and crunch down
i see the blood pour out
i laydown and look at the sinking
sun with my head on my paws. <3

I trace my finger around. With red lipstick on I wear the skin of the pets I had, looking like a marigold shot through the head, my bare skin is barbed in the back. Such trouble and quiet with the wrap-around, the cross-walk, and floral shop as I browse. The white elephant in the upstairs bedroom, is making it hard for every one of us to sleep. With this Africa becomes a disease, that I unwrap from a cotton white sheet. When I breathe life is going good, under the spells of wicked and word. I like to call out in the night, so with no response I can plead for the courage to think; all the suburban philistines try to help me, but I can't tell a joke because I cannot read. Every thing amounts to being fat. Or liquidated in the most pathetic singles party for Karl Lagerfeld.

Numb fingers slur the words as I type telephone numbers that end in threes. I see a notice to be called upon, but it's hard to remember what day it is when your job only pays you in financial advice, "Don't do as I do, but please just do what I say." And I can smell that. The approach that a hunter brews in his midnight solemn cup of tea. Where a voice chimes in while a mouse runs out, dragging the corners of my eyes in a lagging meme, it doesn't do well to even be yourself sometimes, once while traveling I couldn't see. Come that morning I had left my hotel pass inside my favorite pants, black denim toting paint from a ******* shot, a picture that explains my disease.

The fifty inch fan hums an anonymous tune that when I turn quickly towards it becomes this feral baboon. And is it hardly based on fact or is it the illusions and the myths that Christopher Robins struck inside of me. With his griseous hands made of soot and of gouache, that worshipped animals that wear clothes outside. And even sometimes there are z's that transform into other creatures that hum real fast and talk out loud in nursery rhymes, a Whatsit and a Woozel are totally, too much for me. I turn the fan off and lay back down, and fight the world off with hands from another guy, much braver than I who doesn't even have tattoos but he's the top wordsmith from Buckingham. What a beautiful treat and such a magnificent surprise that the elephant lays down to die. Of course that's when my mouth dries up with smoke and my voice turns into the vanilla flavoring that everyone hates, and then too I felt like laying down to die. But I'm not 97 like I had thought I'm quite sure that I'm still alive. The white moon shines into my bedroom window at night and I pretend that I direct for the sky.