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The Howling Wolves

The howling wolves at my door, just what is it they are hungry for?

They hunt me down, snapping and snarling at my heels,

red eyes glinting in the dark night air,

grinning and growling, howling and moaning.

But something is snapping at their heels,

a devouring mouth

a yawning chasm

an avalanche in the abyss.

It’s all crumbling away.

I’m in their way.

If they eat me, they’ll be safe.

If one can snap my achilles tendon, I’ll be down, fallen among them – but then what?

Will they really eat me?

This is a waking dream – turn around and love them.

Let them eat you, let them feast on you,

devour all your pettiness, rip the gossip from your bones,

chewing and tearing the critic’s sticky fibrous sinews,

ripping and tearing, crunching and cracking,

wolfing down all the nasty, jaundiced eyes, bile green and sour, bitter and heartless.

What do you care? Who do you think you are?

They’re upon you now,

ripping and tearing,

crunching and cracking,

snarling and slavering over your shaman bones.

It’s all you have left, your earthly remains.

Sucking up the marrow,

now nothing is left,

just a few slivers and splinters.

It’s really not so bad, not as bad as it sounds,

when the howling wolves hunt you to the ground.

It’s a relief in a way, to have your bones picked clean, nothing left,

no remains of the way you were seen.

Turn and face them.

Embrace them.

Your bones picked clean.

Now what?

A silent wind blows thru.

No thought

Hanging suspended, a will o’ the wisp,

Invisible, insubstantial.

Maybe now I’ll have a chance to slip thru the shining translucent membranes.

Still there’s that yearning…

Should I leave it all behind? Or is it desire that calls the elements forth?

The hunger is gone.

All is complete.

No doing, no thinking.

A vast and empty-full space.

No-thing contains it all.






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