My wolves are at war,
Angry ******* beasts,
Mapping out their territory,
Tattooing stigmata on my flesh,
Haunting my moon,
My soul a ****** battleground,
Stripped bones,
Marrow ****** dry.

At the first speck of dawn,
I am their master,
Shackling my beasts,
To distant lands,
Decaying facades and dead spirits.
My wolves howl,
Begging,
Feed me,
Break my chains,
Set me free.

A pack of wolves is
Sometimes preferable
To a pack of cigarettes
Makes for a coup de grâce
A merciful death
And I’m fresh out of wolves

The bluest of oceans
Reside
In your beautiful eyes
Your gaze speaks eons
Of your hermit heart
Yet not one speck, I sense
Of lonesomeness
In your life
All I can pick
Is your joyful vibe
Your horsepower mind
Intrigues me
How you solve mysteries
That bind you in a world
Smaller than your universe
How you escape, lost in an expanse
Where you feel more at home
How with the darkening of the sky
As the snow reflects moonlight
Your energies rise in unison with the tide
How your howl feels more like a hymn to meditate on
What are you, wise soul?
Such beauty wrapped in mush and fur

She’s like the full moon
She has her night of brilliance and clarity
Seen and beheld in all her beauty
Bathing the world in her light
Shining on every ocean
Casting dancing shadows over the ground
They dance for her presence
Wolves worship her
Howl for her love
She gives it freely
But she fades
Her round and full face shrinks
Her brilliance dulls and her beauty
It ebbs away
Because time is up
Time is always up
Good always comes to an end
The wolves cry for her
The ocean is without it’s spotlight
The shadows are less energetic
Time has turned their beloved dark
But she knows she is new
And will come again
Her light even more dazzling

Little white clouds are
The young pups, bouncing along
Tripping on their paws

The stronger, large ones
Grey, matte fur tails brushing
Through the hunter's sky

The darkest elders
Follow, howling quiet when
They return to earth

While some are alone
True to their nature, the clouds
Run their packs through skies

It's cold here, but it heightens her senses. The rustle of the wind in the fallen leaves and the crash of waves on a distant shore tell her she's at home. But this dream is a lie. There is a huntsman on her tail. His mark is untraceable. But to her it's undeniable. He is here. Silent, patient and resolved, her would-be captor knows her as his own reflection. She is aware of intentions, but also of his hesitation. So, in spite of being in his sights, she paces on. Steady, her gaze remains ahead. And though the ranks of cypress trees pass one by one, for what seems to be eternity, the search for her moon moves her on.