At nights the wolf skims around the woods
And the hunt doesn't get a view to clear.
The unfortunate tabernacle family
Can't then interpret the obtuse and unholy manual
Their glasses frosted with shivering
Baby cries for lollipop renegades,
Burlesque shows with girl scouts in ambivalent attics
Who can't even stitch hand me down pants.
Defunct spiderwebs in place of a blueprint or a solid stance.
Hence the floodlight is forced upon him
Because we were never too sure if the animal had a brain
Or what such a draconian snarl could mean,
A soul ambitionless and strained.
Did anyone hear a guttural SOS about how isolation
And neurosis came from an earlier beginning,
Even packs have their own version of a sociopath
A rival's throat is a malleable thing.
The beast can't latch to mere whimsical air
Or those eternal threads sanctified a priori
From owls in meditation on their perch.
The lone protagonist is cursed to feel those ancestors in his chest
And can only reconcile the stark by howling at the moon confessed.