The One With The Wolves

I walk with the wolves through the marrow of night,

Where branches reach out with a hunger for light.

The moon bleeds silver through veils of decay,

And silence is louder than words dare to say.

The soil beneath me remembers the dead,

Its pulse is a hymn where the fearless once bled.

Roots curl like fingers around buried bone,

And whisper in tongues that I’ve come to own.

I howl through the dusk with a voice carved in flame,

No master, no kin, and no given name.

Eyes like pale lanterns that cut through the gloom,

I guard the threshold of forest and tomb.

The owl is a prophet with sorrowful eyes,

Perched over sins that the daylight denies.

Its cry is a dirge, a warning, a plea,

For souls that have drowned in eternity’s sea.

The stars are like wounds in the skin of the black,

Each one a promise that won’t call you back.

I walk through the night with the storm at my side,

The one with the wolves, with no need to hide.

The ground grips my ankles with reverent hands,

It knows I belong to these cursed lands.

The pines cry blood for the names that we lack,

But I rise from the thorns and I never look back.

Where twilight unravels and boundaries blur,

I dance with the beasts, where no prayers occur.

I cast off the chains of the meek and the mild,

And wear the cold crown of the wilderness wild.

I am the echo that death couldn’t bind,

A relic of fury the world left behind.

The moon is my oath, carved deep in the stone,

I dwell in the wild, and I walk it alone.