The White She Wolf

When monotony’s metal, pitted bars swing round upon me like dancers twirling in hooped dresses, I see a glimpse of her prowling dutifully at the perimeter.

It’s when my soul itches at my interiors and my skin binding quakes to be shed by the universe oscillating beneath its surface that I sense her pull and the need to run my fingers through the majestic, welcoming warmth of her white fur.

It’s when I feel my soul’s grasp on the ethereal, majesty of all its eternal possibilities shake and quiver under the duress of flesh and duty, do I sense her vibrant, black and patient eyes seeing me through my own clouded darkness.

She is my white she wolf. She is my soul’s highest companion birthed into my conscious, cradled amongst the rocks in Sedona.

It was there in a waking dream that she emerged from across the winding paths of the rocks to show me a higher plane, to show me depths, and wonders of my soul only hinted at in previous soul dalliances.

It is in my darkness, my clawing madness that she comes to me, glistening in white, powerful and kind. Silent, but yet compelling, in her urgency to touch the beauty of my soul and silence the darkness into dawning light.

She is my white she wolf. She is me, born again to the reminder of the light I am.

 

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