Lamenting Over Wolves

For the once bright and shining faces

Do I lament as did they in days of old,

They’ve turned to savage brutal beasts

With hearts so hard and cold.

They are all turned now to ravening

They do not hide as sheep to me.

They may seem to others docile,

But I have seen more horribly.

I lament against their wrath at me

The hatred of blind wolves

Fed on succulent morsels,

Of rumors’ sweet indulge.

They were fed and taught by one:

Rend, Manipulate.

One's hunger possessed all,

A hunger born of envy and of hate.

Won’t someone dull their sharpened fangs!

Someone come and carry me lest I collapse!

Will no one set for them a snare,

Will I alone be trapped?

In this crowd of cunning hounds,

What kind of peace can I hope for?

Are there no more miracle workers?

Are the wonders of old no more?

Are there no hunters seeking game

Those with traps and sturdy bows?

Must I continue hiding without facing them,

This does not feel like a path I chose.

But a voice whispers So gently,

And it’s right, though it pisses me off,

Saying: though these wolves have sharpened fangs

They still have coats that are soft.

It is not a hunter that you need

It’s a mind focused on work ahead.

The pack may be at your heels

But they will tire of chasing and will in turn be led.”

No. None other can end my suffering,

None else can stop this pack.

It’s only perseverance,

Only moving forward can turn them back.