Shadow Wolves by Sarah James

Their soft fur – moon white, black as a dark

night, or the grizzled grey of flecked slate –


was not made for stillness or the puppet

motion of stolen sleekness draped over


human bones. Do not be surprised if

the weight of absent flesh rests heavily


on the wearer’s shoulders or the skin

beneath starts to stink of rotten meat.


Death lingers in the shadowed fur.

Wild lives cannot be worn with grace


by those with no right to their beauty.

blue_moon

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