The rose'n fire glows in the breast of the wolf,
living on the folds of the steppes, a beast
feeding on blooded flesh.  Blood smears its fur.
In the eyes shimmers a keenness to go,
across the ice which hides the ground, under the glancing wisps of clouds.
A gleam chasing the sun and moon of the paths
racing, light streaming filamented
over the blue'd rivers ice'd.
The moon reflects the late red glow of the sun
rested below the west.
Light reflects from the eyes, shimmering off the facets of thirst.
The circumstances of existence; singing the keen fleetings of
desire, taking wing under the blooded sky, glimmerings
in the eyes.  Taken flight across the steppes.
The muscles ripple as the powerful limbs carefully articulate the smooth motion
needed to glide across the waste.
The awakening lights, the ensleepment envelope of siren dreamin',
in silence keening.
The pain, the burning enlightment, the dreammeant of sleep.

By the sea, on the salted shore.
The wolf eats the wise man, rips and devours.

the old man had discovered the joy and beauty of the universe had held it in
his hands he had become part of and void he had passed through the gem the
temporal mists until he had crashed against the end of time which is the hem
of God's cloak the force of relativity smashed behind him the inertia grinding
him against the walls of the universe smashing him through his face before
God burning supernova flamed his mind greater then pain it ripped his mind
into a shattering crash of light which tore through the very fabric of his body
sunder is this heaven to have a mind soul ripped apart by the beauty of God's face

The man fell to the floor, his eyes staring at the small marks in the floor,
the cold winds ruffled his hair.

The Wolf eats the wise man, rips and devours.
Wolf washed the blood off in a china basin.
Took a doublet of cut purple, the finest elegance;
then the hose, dark as summer wine.
Then a codpiece, sly male arrogance.
A robe with puffed sleeves for a young man, courtly of a kind,
placed over the doublet.
Calf high boots are slipped over the hind legs.
Taller then any man, striding to the Kingdom court, a silhouette of whispering silk.
By the betrayal of his form he remains a wolf;
ears pricked for the least sound, movement,
eyes furtive to ween like a beast with a glimmerings shy,
muzzle sniffing the air.
In the mists of the hunt: seeking, finding ,
the twisting reality, the small sounds of some doors.
The clouds remained darkened as the form of the wolf remained.
Black waters, kaleidoscopic with Elysium illumine blaze,
blackance Opalectric, drowning in the well at the end of the worlds,
atomic eclipse supernova dangling in the  transumation
and the reality twists in on itself.
He is, he is not.
Striding into court, watching silently.
The courtiers were drawn in by the web of their boredom, seeing only the velvet cloak and tight boots, veiling the reality before their wishful eyes, misting the forms.  But he saw them, the smell made him snort with disgust.
The scent of roses and lavender coyed the rank odor of the courtiers.
Reek, with their lies and smiling ways
Stalking the prey, finding it unfit, no meat for a winter's banquet.
Wolf finds the way to kill the smiling dolls.
They never notice the canine face and the low growling voice,
the hot breath coming in great gasps,
the piercing eyes red and unblinking.
While the lords and ladies carefully dance their cotillions,
the careful placement of their feet in the elaborate, slow  movement.
With each placement of the foot carefully mapped to the rhythm of the music.
Wolf found the food he craved, in the dark rooms of the scriptorium,
where dark enclosed men glide among the cases and shelves of books.
Imprisoned by the spiders' webbingspun,
in threads catching the few gleanings of light.
In the darkest corners the Wolf turned the pages,
reflected in the red harshness of his eyes.
Devouring the twisting lines of black ink; in which, the abstract speech,
passed the words of those
who are dead to those who will be.
Devoured with need; urge, fueled by the harshness of the steppes,
spread out before Death's gate.
New rules know a new hunger;
drinking deep,
like a pool into which a stone is dropped

John C.E. Christensen
(for Eric of St. Mary's City)