story of how a wolf might view its only enemy.
A protest in prose.
So here I lie, crimson snow melting
from the heat of my life, now leaking from my broken body. But
before I am gone, I have something to say, something from my
point of view.
I become what you label me, simply because labels are your
obsession. More often than not, your designations are false
reflections in your cowardly eyes. Obscure images of what you
deem your target to be, without any thought of its true nature.
You are blessed with genius, yet you display no vestige of
responsibility for this unique gift. Surely your intelligence can
allow you to see that I am so much more than your imposed
I am the wolf. True, I kill. I can
show signs of aggression and perhaps I sometimes seem cruel and
vicious. This is the side of me that you like to promote, without
mention of my virtues, my physical abilities that are so far in
advance of your own. Through fear of your own smothered heritage
you establish feigned ignorance to create a monster out of what
you do not understand.
You in your rustling clothes, wide
boots crunching over the snow. A burning plant jutting from your
furless face. Why do you smile as you see me die? I do not hate
you, but you revel in my suffering. My pain empowers you, makes
you feel better than you are. If only you could see what I am. Do
you care that my pups will never see their father again?
What about me? Me the team-member,
me the protector and provider. What about me the devoted mate,
the tender father? What about me the individual with dreams and
hopes, friends, family, and a will of my own? What about me? What
And so I die. I do not understand
much, but I think that my view is so much clearer than yours.
And so I die, alone.
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