Where the Wolves Reign
They brought them back in the Age of Dust,
when crops failed and gods went quiet.
With DNA teased from marrow’s crust,
they rose--reborn, and violent.
In glass-born labs beneath dead cities,
the scientists whispered hope.
“Guardians,” they said, “not beasts nor pity,”
as they cut through time’s old rope.
But the wolves remembered ice and blood,
the hunt, the pack, the kill--
they moved like ghosts through ash and mud,
with a hunger time couldn’t still.
The world grew wild beneath their gaze,
old fences fell to claw and fang.
The sky turned gray for endless days,
and silence bloomed where children sang.
We learned to speak in signal fire,
to tread the earth with care--
for the alphas ruled from mountain spire,
and no one dares go there.
Now laws are written in howl and tooth,
in scent and scar and chase.
The price of playing God, in truth,
was the loss of the human race.
They roam where cities used to burn,
where glass lies sharp in bone--
and every full moon, we return
to pray they leave us alone.
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