Ask your question. Go on.
Ask how I could do it. How I could shed my own skin, forsake my species and run with the wolves. Ask how I could rage under a blood moon, an animal’s growl erupting from me like a long-restrained geyser.
Are you certain you want the answer?
Perhaps you can bear the utter indifference, as though a frigidity of the heart were no more than a winter’s turn of weather. Perhaps you can endure the cyclone of desolation such apathy brings. I cannot. I’ve shattered my heart too often against these endless droughts of compassion, including those for which I was culpable. I’ve turned such a polite, blind eye to the suffering in my midst. No more.
You can go on pretending. I shed my skin and embrace the wild. It’s the last compassion left untainted by hypocrisy.
There, you have your answer. Now, leave me to my hunt. I hear the howl of my brothers. The moon shines bright along the snowy trail. I go and join the hunt. Go and join your own.
and the panicked eyes
of hunted deer
the desperate cry
of an untended child
dVerse Poets’ Tuesday Poetics: Shed some light on this today (pubtended by lillian)