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The Last Wolf
They poison the sheep,
Believing wolves can’t die.
Death is indiscriminate!
They can’t see it,
Their new genesis,
Feeding on the withered bodies
Of bleating sheep,
Engendered in the putrid froth,
Dripping from the wolf’s jowls.
Their eyes are dilated egos,
Glazed-over with impotent apathy,
Empty as a cloudless sky,
One obscure horizon,
Melting like dirty ice,
Into the other.
Disregarded behind tinted glass!
Slightly afraid — eventually,
They applaud a common stratagem,
A method to poison the poisoned,
Secretly wondering,
If gods can really die.
There is a rumor of frailty!
Someone coughs.
A bead of yellow sweat signs a contract!
They make nervous excuses.
Rush in undisclosed unison,
Holding their breath
Behind monogrammed handkerchiefs,
To wash trembling hands,
In private restrooms,
But the sinks
Are full of blood.
The last wolf howls
Ignoring the moon.
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