He stealthily slinks sleek while you deeply sleep,
Treading softly through the forest of your dreams,
Searching for scarce food, mole, bird & errant sheep,
Tiptoeing gently through fallen leaves & frosty streams,
Howling at the deaf pregnant moon for unheard justice,
Weeping, pleading, asking, “Why the wolf, Why me?”
Luna just looks down from her pitch-black, starry cornice,
And with pity answers, “Don’t come to me with your ancient
plea”.
Instilling fear within the hard hearts of cruel, unthinking
men,
The scourge of every related, scribed & ancient tale
told,
Scavenger of mountain, forest, dale & dense leafy fen,
With bloody maw, jaw & paw, melded & soldered with
wisdom old,
He knows that on this earth, & in his life, he has
no worldly friend,
Alone he plods & silently treads, but always with wary
eye,
Trusting none upon this earth, & on none he can
depend,
He drifts quietly on his lonely path & sadly goes away
to die.
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