Wölfe und Eis

Footprints in the white, white snow before a castle old,

belonging to the wolf who lurks deep in pine shadows.

His eyes are pale but yellow like the sun gone cold;

the night harbors no fire, only solemn dark that grows.

Brick overcome by twisting vines, preserved in ice,

the distant memory of a summer on the mountainside.

The soul that stalked the dens of grey scampering mice,

desired the heart of one who did not dare to hide.

On two legs, a nightmare learns to walk with grace,

the wilderness accepts him; bite, howl, and claw.

It was town and folk that taught how to hide a face,

but the glare broke through his frozen iris to thaw.

Depressions in the meadow grass untouched by winter,

left by the ones who deserted him in a midnight flee.

Ahead of the gale, of cawing crows and the wither;

bewitched, enchanted, by the touch of fire he may be.

The harsh wind pierces through both flesh and bone,

crying in the stormy skies, whistling 'cross the sea.

December haunts the home of he who remains alone,

should the creeping one sleep beneathe star or tree.

Softly treading on, sore from the loathing and prejudice,

a sharp smile cut his face, thinking of they who abhor him.

Pelts of hell hounds hung 'round him, their masters credulous,

praying to the lies of victory each hound sung to them.

The moon waned o' a hundred nights as seasons fell to lore,

bloodlust channeled through him; wretched and wayward.

A glowering terror, his shadow was cast on every shore, 

and by the way of normality, he was deemed merely 'absurd.'

There came scrolls laid in musty caverns by fearful men,

telling intricacies on a summoner of the devils below.

He sought them, found them, resting in their shallow bin,

written with the voice of a prophet, it read like so:

"Here is where the story of 'Lucifer' should always begin:

Far out in the wilderness of a land our gods did not bestow,

there came a grand wanting of the despondence of our kin.

Hatred of humankind was a thing our forefathers did not know,

till towns were lost to a wolf from Hades, naught to rise again."

Betrayed and blamed, by the words of ones he had not hurt,

the wolf, trapped in the refuge of runaway leaves, went to rest.

Curled in the corner, with traces of the forgotten autumn dirt,

he recited ballads from an old castle, much farther north than west.

He had held the memories of the crumbling places he had seen,

sewn together by the good and horrifying things he had done.

There bled those wounds, and from all that he could glean, 

he knew not, why the chill of home was the most sorrowful one.

Author's Note

Esk.

Reviews

[Alessander]

I like the story it weaves.
It reads almost like an old minstrel ballad traveling from town to town.

I suppose the wolf (and ice) could symbolize many things, and in the modern vernacular, a "lone wolf" is someone who remains aloof from society, by choice or alienation. A misfit in the true word.

And that's what I feel here - an outcast scorned by the masses.

Fav line by far

"December haunts the home of he who remains alone"

Reminds me of the famous line "You can't go home again"

[Coyote Poetry]

A very nice tale written dear Anna. I wanted to read and know more. You led the reader to places and thoughts for them to grasp and understand. I did like this one. Thank you for sharing the amazing poetry.
Coyote