Wolf

What if the wind drowned out the howl of a lonesome wolf calling out to the moon? Would the tides stop rolling in? Every shore stripped bare of the waters they had felt caressing the sands of time would weep upon the face of a thousand empty hourglasses. Yet the wolf would still howl. A melody haunting the very essence of eternity, raw note after note, until the hourglass shatters into showers of an epiphany. The wolf no longer recognizing the pull of time, instead tethering it's mournful cry to the depths of the night. Darkness evades the rusted sunlight breaking across a canvas now cracked and dry. A solitary wanderer might succumb to the barren landscape in search of the tide once pulled in by the moon. Between the cracks and bristled pads of that lonesome wolf, the journey is never for the sake of do or die. But for the sake of knowing what it feels like to be unapologetically alive. The wolf doesn't apologize for howling at the moon. He is the balance, the eternal stride. Scales of justice for what was lost, weigh the cost of the fight to restore the tide back to the sands of time. Fear is not a remnant of the night, but of our own consecration in the pursuit of righting an egregious wrong. It's a breath, and then it's gone. The wolf howls a steady heartbeat into the space between the ebb and flow of a tide turned red from wounds cut too deep. In the prelude, we join their cry and howl our own melancholy echoes into the vastness this existence is. It is then the hourglass tips and fills with sand once again.