a wolfs towel
i see my headless trunk,
cold and weary,
an ill expanse of years
without play,
through the hot brume of an
aging mirror.
rusty tissue and sinew droop
over rigid organs
that frame my damp form.
but I hold
a wolfs towel.
forgotten.
hardwearing stones
tear the fear from my hide
peeling away my hesitation,
divulging
a fetching fellow.
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