Wolves in the Forest

I am here to reclaim the bow.

Like the forest does to ruins.

The wave does to rubble on the beach.

The bow is a creation of the wild.

And to those who seek to build nice little white fences,

around lawns they sip their robbed coffee over,

take your slippers and run.

Staring at their little lawns,

telling their little rules,

so we can play they’re little game.

Wolves will descend, and take what they like.

Look into their eyes.

Stabilized fire. With utter calm they claim the premises,

this ancient game,

these sacred tools.

Who can wield them but the human spirit.

Only complete freedom can pay homage to the potential of the bow.

No wonder gods fight gods.

One supreme opinion to force-feed upon the masses?

What a joke.

Eons before your inception, forever beyond your death.

From the forest rises a bow,

and a warrior to wield it.


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