A Story's Death

The sun behind

            me,

the Shadows walked on.

 

I watched, as they

bowed to the mountain’s

                        hemline.

 

At the edge, in the water’s tide.

Where fables go to die.

 

A special furor, zealots in

            blind sight sing

a bird’s song to the wolves.

 

Man’s desire, hung hidden in sheep’s wool.

The Shadows bow to the

            Frightened

And the urges are no

more.