Self.

Soft feathers have points.

Don't feed the wolves, they'll howl either way.
Soon frozen under a crisp layer of permafrost with their mouths permanently open.
Gawking, bystanders, sneered faces; now feared faces.
A wave of the hand and a single collapse, splintered remains.
There is a rattling in the back and an anxiousness of approaching night.
I stand shadowed by the light.
Your hairs standing, then falling. In clusters. Nests along the trail.
I have lead you to where I lay. The soft fur matted with red from the harm you used to cause.
Ten fold love, ten fold, not just four.
In packs they travel, only when hunting, but if you create unnecessary confrontation you can not stop the deafening sound of screaming mountains.

We used to carve holes in them for dens, like wombs in the earth.
Sticks poked in until we grew numb.
A gnashing of teeth and the star filled eyes, only ancients recognize us.
Though continued testing of authenticity. There are false empathy dwellers among,
they feed on energy. Keep your hands balled tight, and only travel at night.
Watch from the places they fear, and be it if you must.
My name is what's mine, say it again, dare turn you to dust.
Blown off old books and on the back of a shelf,
soon you'll come clean and then pray for collapse.
you'll need a rest soon, from the false anguish you claim.
On a silver plated platter, dear, your fifteen minutes of fame.

They bow down before like deer in the moss.
warm beds now collect dew.
A bird's soft chatter telling what she has heard.
Deep breath in the back, spin in circles to find what is finding.
May not be as you want.
Wishes need payment, and take as they will. From those who asked for much.
Their stomachs soon fill.
Glistening bellies encrusted with jewels, but nothing's inside, just miniature tombs.
Billowing fog over the sea. You're no longer recognized by ancients, the elsewhere, or me.

S.M.