Wild Ones
A poem
They roam the dense, tangled woods,
these children of the wild,
untamed, untethered, uncivilized.
Feral footsteps tread the mossy trails,
leaving behind a breadcrumb path
of snapped twigs and crushed leaves.
Pale eyes peer out from behind
A curtain of matted, unkempt hair,
watching, wary, waiting.
These are not the youth of storybooks,
rosy-cheeked and sheltered,
living in the comfort of four walls.
No, these are the wolf-children,
forged in the crucible of the wild,
shaped by the unforgiving elements.
They have known no home but the forest,
no family but the beasts that lurk
in the shadows of the ancient trees.
With sharp teeth and sharper claws,
they hunt and scavenge, driven by instinct,
not social graces.
The raw beauty of their savage ways
captivates and repels in equal measure,
this primal grace, this untamed fury.
For they are creatures of the earth,
untouched by the taming hand of man,
untamed, untamed, untamed.
And in their feral eyes, we glimpse
a reflection of our own lost selves,
the wild hearts we’ve buried deep,
longing to break free of civilization’s bonds
and return to that feral, fecund realm
where only the strong and cunning survive.
So we watch from afar,
both terrified and enthralled,
these wolf-children who roam the woods,
gloriously,
unencumbered.
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