~death song of the she wolf~
~end of end of night~
~chords of dissonance~
~man invades in drunk shades~
~shallow celebration~
~child child stand away~
~steel bird & fire sticks~
~foul reek of civilization~
~Lupus In A Minor~
Her voice growls while she sleeps, her legs pump furiously, faster and faster but never quick enough to meet her friends. They are fighting a war of darkness where the sun stops and the moon begins, uncertain peace between the essence of the tides.
Slowly she awakens, having become a part of the place where consciousness is suspended in her journey across night. The wind whispers through the trees. She drinks its night scent, is reluctant to awaken to attend the war.
The faces of her family assail her, the brave mate of her life first. When the angry bird came with man-gods in its belly, he led the pack to a secret den but the bird followed and found them. It chased them higher and higher into the ice mountains.
She remembers his final nuzzling as he told her to take the others, her sister and the young male, four healthy pups. Then the bird ripped the night, blinding them with the rays of its moon. He snarled at them as the pups attempted to follow and the bird followed him as he led it away from the pack.
There was a great storm as the bird beat its wings against the Earth. Fire spit from the sticks of the men as he raged against the storm, leapt toward the bird. His body was lifted and held, black against a cloud of white. The greatest spirit she had known lay broken on the ground and the man-gods laughed as the bird screamed away. Her voice began its mournful song, answered and joined by those of the pack, each voice different from the next, hers above and beyond the others in its awful pain.
The haunting sound it made was pure of lament, a last farewell to the mate of her life. She licked his freezing wounds, nuzzled his stiffening body, gathered her young and the others. The wind moaned through the mountain forest as she led them away.
They are silent shadows, starving and running, when the bird finds them once more. Her sister stumbles, lays broken in a pool of blood. The young male refuses to leave her, nipping and whimpering nervously, encouraging her to rise and flee. The storm bird returns and he joins her forever. A witness from the trees, wild eyes, she and her young are shadows watching.
Thoughts of her young bring her awake with a start. Nature is merciful; the memory of the slaughter of her children is held from her. She whimpers as she licks her fur, tastes the blood of each of them. There is a howling come down, the most ungodly sound these men have ever heard, a single voice of thousands crying out loss and rage, the darkest sign of profound pain and loneliness. It is not of this earth. Fear stands their man-hair on end as they break camp.
Unlike her black mate, she is silver. Their man-eyes don’t see her until she is in the camp. They rush to their guns as she crouches in their midst. She knows what they have to offer, the release she comes seeking. She drinks their fear as the fire sticks speak. She doesn’t hear their hollow nervous laughter when it is over. She rides the pieces of lead into the embrace of her family.
They are gone running, shadows slipping through the storm, until their sweet ghost song, voices lifting on wind, are all that remains in that dark place where the sun stops and the moon begins, uncertain peace between the essence of the tides.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~end of end of night~
~chords of dissonance~
~man invades in drunk shades~
~shallow celebration~
~child child stand away~
~steel bird & fire sticks~
~foul reek of civilization~
~Lupus In A Minor~
Her voice growls while she sleeps, her legs pump furiously, faster and faster but never quick enough to meet her friends. They are fighting a war of darkness where the sun stops and the moon begins, uncertain peace between the essence of the tides.
Slowly she awakens, having become a part of the place where consciousness is suspended in her journey across night. The wind whispers through the trees. She drinks its night scent, is reluctant to awaken to attend the war.
The faces of her family assail her, the brave mate of her life first. When the angry bird came with man-gods in its belly, he led the pack to a secret den but the bird followed and found them. It chased them higher and higher into the ice mountains.
She remembers his final nuzzling as he told her to take the others, her sister and the young male, four healthy pups. Then the bird ripped the night, blinding them with the rays of its moon. He snarled at them as the pups attempted to follow and the bird followed him as he led it away from the pack.
There was a great storm as the bird beat its wings against the Earth. Fire spit from the sticks of the men as he raged against the storm, leapt toward the bird. His body was lifted and held, black against a cloud of white. The greatest spirit she had known lay broken on the ground and the man-gods laughed as the bird screamed away. Her voice began its mournful song, answered and joined by those of the pack, each voice different from the next, hers above and beyond the others in its awful pain.
The haunting sound it made was pure of lament, a last farewell to the mate of her life. She licked his freezing wounds, nuzzled his stiffening body, gathered her young and the others. The wind moaned through the mountain forest as she led them away.
They are silent shadows, starving and running, when the bird finds them once more. Her sister stumbles, lays broken in a pool of blood. The young male refuses to leave her, nipping and whimpering nervously, encouraging her to rise and flee. The storm bird returns and he joins her forever. A witness from the trees, wild eyes, she and her young are shadows watching.
Thoughts of her young bring her awake with a start. Nature is merciful; the memory of the slaughter of her children is held from her. She whimpers as she licks her fur, tastes the blood of each of them. There is a howling come down, the most ungodly sound these men have ever heard, a single voice of thousands crying out loss and rage, the darkest sign of profound pain and loneliness. It is not of this earth. Fear stands their man-hair on end as they break camp.
Unlike her black mate, she is silver. Their man-eyes don’t see her until she is in the camp. They rush to their guns as she crouches in their midst. She knows what they have to offer, the release she comes seeking. She drinks their fear as the fire sticks speak. She doesn’t hear their hollow nervous laughter when it is over. She rides the pieces of lead into the embrace of her family.
They are gone running, shadows slipping through the storm, until their sweet ghost song, voices lifting on wind, are all that remains in that dark place where the sun stops and the moon begins, uncertain peace between the essence of the tides.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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