The Black Sheep

I'm strong and black and wild and hairy. Am, in fact, a wolf, although the shepherd claims me as his sheep. He holds me high above all others, softly strokes my midnight fleece, calls all: "Come see the finest of my flock, which I thought lost. God gave it back to me." Yet, I am a wolf. I sense it in hot veins, blood thirst, and quick, taut limbs. I'll baa a bit, for now, and play sheep games, and wait until our shepherd sleeps. Whiteness all around. Even watchful shepherds dream – Predator on prey. I asked no maker, from dark clay, to mould me sheep. I urged no placement in this flock. I crave an hour. One's enough. A silent chat, alone with neighbours, two or three. I'll feed, then run. For now, I rest beside still waters, chew my cud, and think. God made me His wolf. God placed me with His lambs. God made me what I am. The winter's passed. The rains have fled. The soft and tasty lambs all leap about. They have no fear of me while shepherds live. Here, at our table, short sweet grass: sheep prayers answered. Simple safety. Sleep and seem content. No, wait. Wake up. I’m wolf, not sheep. Prayer lulls the shepherd – Opiate of the masses. Deep drug-brought comfort. The day is done. The fire's dead. The tent is dreaming. Darkness wakes me from day’s weak, pale thoughts. The moon begins to rise. What mercy need I offer pleading sheep? I'm wolf. I'm Wolf. Pleasure comes from flesh, Not intellect or seeming. I'm Wolf. I'm feeding.