during these bleak Winter nights
when the skies are blackened by clarity, polka-dotted with
minuscule bits of stars —
and windowpanes lined with ice save
no promises for fresh air —
I can hear them
deep within the catacombs of the woods
that bleed nothing but whispers from leaves
fallen from naked branches.
guttural howls reverberate from packs of
shaggy tails wagging and mounted to the sky —
the pain of their cries is unbearable
a poignant melody evoking my heart’s greatest empathy.
and I would run to the wolves
their song, my compass through the darkened streets
separated from the pack, I am reminded of my own anguish
lost and afraid — I am just one of the wolves —
confessing to the stars, hoping they are listening to my song.
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