The Majesty of Wolves

 

 

 

Listen to Live Reading

 

 

 

Listen to Suggested Audio

 

 Adrian von Ziegler “Wolf Blood”

 

 

 

 

 

The little boy, lost in the thick of the wood, cried her name
She was a wolf
The leader of a most esteemed pack, no less
Dignified, utterly fearless and brave
Upon the earth, her peerless frame impressed
Wild were the eyes of abandon to slight
While her pluck and her fight bespoke of legendary tiding
Every truth that she confided such attested

 

Never cruelly bested by the crest of bitter waves parading
Not a solitary breath be jaded
This gray stepped out in gown some way from faded
Masquerading pains she traded then for gain of all adored
The little boy had been forewarned of all potential dangers
Of entertaining audience to strangers
Howbeit, no precaution he endorsed
As rose red teardrops stained the trail
Bereft of frail remorse; Mast erect
Elected course for setting sail

 

As he reached the clearing, it became crystalline clear that each fear heightened senses no less than revered
Five across the eyes confided ten as he sensed movement in the dense trees to his rear and ever nearing
Primed for the reveal, he cried a second time
This time, in kind
To reassure that he adored the flawless form of genesis
Blind faith procured from awe inspired each time this fine beast led the line
Her pack lacked not the sight and mind
Towards her majesty inclined

 

Loyal to below the bones within which frameless flowers grew
Famed to roam the snow-strewn plains
Revivify terrain, bid bloom to crops of wither; Dither not
When standing firm in shared belief
That wolves are not dressed up as sheep
They’re simply free to breathe the air so many breeds concede due care
He knew that neither here nor there declared of in-between so keenly seen
Through eyes almost obscenely wide
For every wolf proceeded then to cry, in kind

 

The tracks of shed tears bled the treadway to forever friends not yet made
Not a shred of flesh flayed
For a better way ahead laid
Burdened not by curse of dead weight
To the bones, below the red clay
He felt gay, preserved and kept safe
From the bitter chill of night
For the wolves led not astray
But to their den to shield from harm until first light
Calmly he proceeded through the dense trees to his rear
And the little boy remembered this kind act for all his years

 

 

 

 

 

Richard Charles Stevens

 

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

 

 

 

Click here to purchase All of Me Vol. III

 

 

Click here to purchase on Amazon

 

 

© Copyright: Rivers of Grue™ Shadow Spark Publishing™

 

 

If you like what you've seen & read please feel free to share your thoughts with us!

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.