March 15, 2001: Breaths of air

When all seems weak—look beyond the curtain. The wolf sits waiting; his paws reveal open wounds yet his prompt ears start to point—beware, the victim is near. Perfect trails belong in parks—even then, they crisscross and wind around half living forests. Until I’m dead, never forget, I’m watching. How I’ve been treated shall be the reflection. My admitting the truths of failures and mistakes—only invites footsteps to play tit for tat. Like the wolf, I have pointed ears and teeth blood stained by your travels. Patiently, I sit inside crowded darkness—no trail is silent, no heartbeat the same. Like a wolf whose face impacts—no matter what your decision…when all is said and done, your willingness to act perfect shall be the biggest mistake made. The scent of many colors is set to rise, with it—there’s thunder.