When the wendigo breathes,
quiet as a whisper,
The windstorm disturbs the leaves.
The dark beast prowls between the trees,
and the leaves take on a gray tint as twilight descends.
It wanders,
Silent like sunlight.
No destination in mind.
No origin it can recall.
A beast does not simply have fangs.
To be a beast you must be aware of your actions.
So,
A beast is a beast when it has the choice to be anything other than a beast,
but chooses wrong.
My question,
When is a beast NOT a beast?
Does the creature have a choice when the only other option is death?
Stop the beating of your own heart,
Or lose yourself amongst the wise old dogwoods?
YOU ARE READING
Zoning out at Work Vibes
PoetrySometimes at work, the idea for a story or poem pops into my head. No one said I should write them down, but I've decided to try anyway. Maybe you will think it is awful, but I already love this. About halfway through, I begin to mix in some of my o...
