When we were wolves we were so much better off. No one knocking our door down for surveys, no war documentaries flashing at us night and day because we couldn’t make them stop, no more blasted suit coats, which are really just so unnecessary.
When we were wolves, the sun played, and we played. Water colder, breezes brighter. The rain a cooling friend. Now it’s tabletops and “pine fresh”, folded napkins. Which are always, always, only ever unfolded again.
Our teeth, now, are capped, filed down and filed away, future problems mapped out already. Our bones are weary from our strange new positions, hunched like a hibernator, narrowed to a point.
No more can we simply walk away.
1 comment:
I refuse to completely give up my wolfishness. I reinvigorate it by reading 'Steppenwolf'.
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