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Wolf Wants Wishes
16 years ago
General
Can I dream? Can I at least have solidarity?
Here is a riddle, I once ponder, the thought of furry alligenty.
Is it just me, or can i not hold down commitment, although I am in deperate search, to find that one true love.
Although i ponder, this hill, this moutain, I struggle, over.
What is love? What is solidarity? Let me make this somwhat eager but yet decriptive if I may detail poetic solidation.
O' ere to dread it, I wait till morn.
On summer's passing, of winters torn.
Light the dark, Light the everlasting grey.
All a wolf wants, winders away.
Slight simple, pleasured doubt, A dream.
Nights long everlasting scream.
Barberic, They call me, alas they see.
That this wolf has noone else to be.
Tanteric, solid waves, crash apon the never ending blue.
Is this? it is the day i rue.
Lavish me with water bread and wine.
Now winter brings, these ungreatful swine.
"How thou wolf?" Cried the human carcas, in the day.
Shadowed by fear, and shadowed by the grey.
This never ennding mirror, traps my one true self.
Laying life apon an empty, downcasted shelf.
"Off with its head" Cried the people, of the town.
With windows of whispers, that tear me down.
Feral mutant, inferal clown.
Throw down, Your hand, your life, you barberic slown.
"Alas vile fiend" Cried the minister.
Ireach my paw to unforgiven mister.
Alas its over, my struugle to be.
The one in the mirror, the thing I see.
In that glass I remain. Never to be seen again.
Trapped in the forest of unforgiven soul.
Srowning in the mists of glass, Once, twice. And zen.
Now, just then, just that moment roul.
I was the mirror, I was my beast.
I was the barberic, man with not skin.
Just fur, paws, and a tail, and to mark my tracks yeast.
Now, all i want was within.
This mirror, this slane of glass.
This barberic beast, of meories, sad, but true.
Ever lasting moments pass.
Looking into those eyes, of blue.
Can you call me barberic, or a beast, or a fool.
Its been said by both those, of passive tool.
Into the night, I awake again.
To see that I never reached Zen.
Into the travelling show, again I go.
Once twice, but in here, I feel so low.
Brute Hanson
19th December 2009
Here is a riddle, I once ponder, the thought of furry alligenty.
Is it just me, or can i not hold down commitment, although I am in deperate search, to find that one true love.
Although i ponder, this hill, this moutain, I struggle, over.
What is love? What is solidarity? Let me make this somwhat eager but yet decriptive if I may detail poetic solidation.
O' ere to dread it, I wait till morn.
On summer's passing, of winters torn.
Light the dark, Light the everlasting grey.
All a wolf wants, winders away.
Slight simple, pleasured doubt, A dream.
Nights long everlasting scream.
Barberic, They call me, alas they see.
That this wolf has noone else to be.
Tanteric, solid waves, crash apon the never ending blue.
Is this? it is the day i rue.
Lavish me with water bread and wine.
Now winter brings, these ungreatful swine.
"How thou wolf?" Cried the human carcas, in the day.
Shadowed by fear, and shadowed by the grey.
This never ennding mirror, traps my one true self.
Laying life apon an empty, downcasted shelf.
"Off with its head" Cried the people, of the town.
With windows of whispers, that tear me down.
Feral mutant, inferal clown.
Throw down, Your hand, your life, you barberic slown.
"Alas vile fiend" Cried the minister.
Ireach my paw to unforgiven mister.
Alas its over, my struugle to be.
The one in the mirror, the thing I see.
In that glass I remain. Never to be seen again.
Trapped in the forest of unforgiven soul.
Srowning in the mists of glass, Once, twice. And zen.
Now, just then, just that moment roul.
I was the mirror, I was my beast.
I was the barberic, man with not skin.
Just fur, paws, and a tail, and to mark my tracks yeast.
Now, all i want was within.
This mirror, this slane of glass.
This barberic beast, of meories, sad, but true.
Ever lasting moments pass.
Looking into those eyes, of blue.
Can you call me barberic, or a beast, or a fool.
Its been said by both those, of passive tool.
Into the night, I awake again.
To see that I never reached Zen.
Into the travelling show, again I go.
Once twice, but in here, I feel so low.
Brute Hanson
19th December 2009
