I sat in a glass building recently where I had gone for an interview. While waiting at the reception area, I was walking around and took a peak outside the window. All I could see was the white paint and tinted glasses of the building next to the one I was in. I froze for a moment, staring out into nothing and felt this urge to just escape from this concrete and glass jungle, to cut away the threads that held me to this type of existence and I imagined the wolf calling out to me. This poem I think started building from there within.
So strange a stride, weathered yet strong
A slow steadied beat, each move assured and just
As if calculated well before time
The swiftness of a thought abound
As wolves hunt in pack a prey
Conditioned to counter the vast reserve
Steadfast in the arctic sun
A fog envelopes, blind as night
With no moon to guide, yet the stride
Never misses a beat, nor the cane a divide
A world of fantasy, love and hope
Flowers square with walking trees,
Yet the sane huddle in a corner stone
While pride moves up the sheet
Into the blue, with a skip and a dance
For hasn’t it been all along
Accustomed to rays of light in the blackest of the nights.
A scalpel art of love divine
Light to light and dark to black
A new meaning, a new world
Monotony within the economies of the large
No more sure, is the left step the first
Why have the flowers lost their charm
A world seen through one single sightA long to close these for peace
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