“To the wolf who gave up his sheep’s clothing”
By Cecil

You’ve no moon to howl at.
Hold your tongue.

Have you a home?

For you reject your kin.
As they nip at your soul.

With those harsh winds of twilight,
where must your mind wander?
Through that quiet night,
and through that frantic head.

The cosmos above stares into you,
just as you stare into yourself.
For the need of forgiveness.
For the desire of belonging.

Beneath the stars above,
and unknown to the flock,

you hide.

And to the sky above,
you turn your head.

Have you any solace?

Within its limitless bounds,
you see—you.

Do you live with conviction?
Have you any shame?

Your blood-stained fleece,
a silver tongue and claws that strike.
You made it look easy.

Were you born for apathy?

The cosmos mocks you;
for it is your mind filled with its unashamed presence.
It burdens you, how you desire to take its place.

A sleepless night, punctuated with sunrise.
Haven’t you grown tired?

As you knew you would,
you made due.

Amongst a sea of souls,
you lied, stole, and maimed.

Choke back your red tears.
Hold your tongue.
Wait for your company,
that empty night.

But now, what’s come of you?
You, lone soul.

When you gave up the act,
Weren’t you terrified?

When they looked at you,
Did they see you?

For what have you given up your comfort?

That pastel sky, orange and hazy,
your fur glowing in the light,
Could you have known?

I see you,
an animal who’s found himself at once.
Paws amongst hooves;
for once, treading new prints.

Amongst the sea of white,
an anxious blur of grey.
A dot of purity amidst the impure,
waiting in the light.
That sun’s warmth bouncing off your heavy soul.

Can you bear to bare your teeth?
For what will you howl?

You, lone soul.

Have you a home?


Untitled
By Cecil, December, 2024.
I am no more than the dirt beneath my feet, feeble and meek.
I made peace in acceptance.
It is from the ruins of my own glass castle, crashed and destroyed by my own vices, that I may cast stones out into the world.

For I am arrogant. For I am flawed.
But I live and breath.

And after I made peace with my circumstances.
And after I embraced being mere dirt.

I grew to love the idea of creation.
For what is our gift back to the world?

Gifts of destruction? Gifts of creation?

We are a mosaic of ideas.

I'm left with one simple desire.

From the dirt of my existence,
I want to grow creations born of love and desire and hate and passion.
I am human. Home