The Wolf Envies the Doe


I want to be a doe
who walks gingerly,
soft step by soft foot
through soft forest bedding.
Large brown eyes so tranquil,
pools of timid understanding,
drink deeply of beauty and grace.
Ever so gentle.
Ever so lovely.

I don't know why
I want to be a doe,
when such beauty
and such timidness
means weakness.

But I am a wolf.
I trot silently in shadow,
hunger in the sway of my walk.
I deal in more toilsome natures.
The moon compels my solemn voice.
And if you cross me
I will bear my fangs,
made for tearing flesh,
and rip out your throat.

I want to be a doe,
but life has made me a wolf.

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