If I am the wolf,

I am hunting not food but for the meaning of life.

I rise in the dark of the night,

The doubt and fear urge me on.

For what do I have to fear when I am the king of the night?

Others tremble in my presence.

Humanity gloats in turning my kind into a beastly folklore who is unruly and dangerous.

For what is a wolf?

Wolves have survived these centuries due to their determination

and hunger for the best in life.

They outwit greedy men,

by working together in pack towards a common goal.

Wolfs are majestic creatures;

misunderstood but beautiful nevertheless.

I am the lone survivor.

Left behind from the pack I crawl

begging for menial scraps.

Vulnerable now but prideful still,

I slink into the shadows of darkness building my own cave.

Under the full moon’s bashful gaze I push the brush aside,

Plotting one foot in front of the other,

I reach the last hill.

This is my final destination.

Nothing stands in-between the moon and I,

Overcome with my desire

I succumb to the innate cry within my soul,

lamenting to the only person who is not cowardly enough to share my presence,

The silver moon.