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Writing You'll just have to read it won't you...


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I'm going to post this, I don't care how absurdly tacky the theme of the poem is.

The sky was wide upon the plains,
The air was clear and sweet,
A proud figure stood so still to feel,
The grass beneath his feet.

The blades did sway upon the ground,
And fur upon his face
Did ruffle in the stirring air
And danced with faerie grace.

The setting sun then scorched the sky
A deep and russet red,
The moon once more did blink its eyes
In rising from its bed.

The wolf then sighed and turned his head
To face the rising moon,
And mourned that once again the day
Should face its end so soon.

He closed his eyes and licked his lips,
A movement lined with pain,
And then a mournful cry took flight
And echoed 'cross the plain.

The howl was long, a saddened voice
For the one without a pack,
For the one who to the others sang
But would never they sing back.

He sank his head between his paws,
And blinked away a tear,
A lonely hope, a longing dream,
His pack would find him here...
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