Coyote Red

We all start as strangers,
bearing hungry eyes
that inject fear within
other victims—
so-called prey.

Our minds are partially wounded at birth.
For we begin deprived of good virtues, valued
only during the range of our lifetimes.

Constantly, predators chase us,
trying to lead the way to our doom,
but we put up a fight,
so it doesn’t become easy to back down.

The blood brutalizing our mortal hands,
warn others that time can be tainted in
any scar still renewing broken flaws.

Because the truth is,
we’re more than a
quarter feeble
than we make ourselves appear to be.

It’s painless to hide under coyote red.
Just spoil the flesh of the living and dead.

Say you don’t need moonlit gatherings
or listen to foolish blatherings
before you go to sleep tonight.

Hide away,
stalk your kin,
but don’t obey
anything they
convey.

You slay your hurt with piercing amber eyes;
never get out to see the daylight.

Since you continue sidestepping mundane,

matters that should hold significance to you.

The hunt doesn’t end. No one ever plans to stop
the foul play, killer games.

Eventually, you’ll be forced to join a new pack,
one you can confidently call your own.
Your red will deplete as coyness vanishes
from the brazen woodlands, invigorated near the
waterfall rain, pouring below in helpless sheets.
The moon is bound to rise fully revealed,
and you can howl to your heart’s contempt.

An innocent deer may catch your eye.
Yet, something will restrain you from
proceeding to shift.

At first, the hunt looks pleasing,
but now you’re freezing
more often because of cold chills
and the fact
you were as feeble as the white spotted deer
except covered internally in fur patched lament.

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