Wolf Sleep

I sleep the sleep of the dead. I rest my head on a pillow of marble, my arms crossed over a heart that can take no more. It will never heal.
Never turn to rust, to dust to tears that disappear in the salty ocean.
So, I sleep. I turn my clouded eyes away and look backwards through the years. I can feel them all and what they mean to me. They are grey figures, like mourning doves on a cloudy day.
I sleep like an angel, my hands carved into marble. Long fingers. longer than they were in life. but I am no angel.
My wings burned long ago.
As I dream, my hands turn to paws, fingers curling under into claws. My skin, always too pale, too exposed, turns into a waterfall of russet fur.
I am a wolf, alone.
I dream.
Running along the tops of hills. The scent of the hunt is strong in my veins.
I am the wolf and I sleep no more. My legs never tire, I can run forever.
I will never lose their scent, it is a map on my heart. And I will never sleep again.


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