We spin webs of lies,
we build walls so thin,
to keep us safe within;
we never realize.
That there’s a wolf outside
trying to get in,
and when the end begins,
two worlds at once collide.
This is the end of the world,
now, it’s our turn.
We think a few layers thick,
some sheetrock, paint and design
will keep the hunger outside.
Wrapped in our bundles of sticks,
somehow, we’ll defy the storm.
We’ll survive the night until dawn.
How long did we think we’d go on?
So little keeping us safe and warm.
One good wind and it all goes away.
All our promises washed in the rain.
Our identities and our homes
just safety and respite,
illusions in the sight
of what we don’t see on our own.
Until the wolf comes in,
until the walls come down,
we’ll never know just how
we survive anything.
In the night, in the storm
is when we know our form.
Inside our walls,
inside our lies,
no big surprise
we’re not at all
who we think we are,
something soft and ripe
just prey, despite
having come so far.
Even if we don’t fear it anymore,
there’s still a wolf at the door.
Stalking to and fro,
waiting for the door
to fall to the floor;
that’s the way it goes.
Al l our grand designs
fade in natures face,
words and walls displaced.
We all fall in time.
Food for the wolf,
or for the worms;
and the world still turns.
HG – 2019
