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Click hereWolf moon stalking mocking
Reflecting reflexes
young strong bold
on the rise
Walking in his shadow
I tremble
Old moon days numbered
gray face dimming
awaits night claws
cold slashing light
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 37,000 poems.
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the old man as he struggles to keep control. In the wild, the wisdom in the grey of your whiskers means much less than the ache of arthritis in your bones. Poor old wolf.
The alpha is dead! Long live the alpha!