the fur : a parable

there were warnings heralded through the land
and in private whispers that were acted
out in pantomime so clearly that
there may as well have been
curtains, minstrels, and medicines.

a wolf had entered the streets
appearing from woods that no one
dared to enter or barely even glance at.
in fact no one even knew where he came from
really.  only assuming his orgin in the same
way we assume our heart will keep beating today,
when it could stop at any moment.

the hairy beast with a slow yet unpredictable stride
traveled lightly with a shoulder sack
that couldn't contain much more than
possibly
a delivery of
some importance, or
a secret talisman that was a key
to an ancient lifeforce.
why bother carrying this at all
if there was no story behind it...
or maybe it was just water
to live.

He continued to walk
being careful to not make
contact with the local curiosity.
He pretended he was invisible,
or at least just like them...
He pretended a trickling down
trail of blood
didn't reveal his true path,
which was easy since no one
ever looked down.
a race of strangers that could
be walking ignorantly
on air for generations
before looking down to
see they were in fact flying.
And hundreds of years with no faith,
wasted.

He stepped into the pub, finding
the darkest corner he could
to numb and drown and stare
out as he fingered his own fur
and under-scars...
finding, not losing himself
inside the hazy ether
of other hearts on the run
sucking up the illusion
of not being alone.

but then
after some time
he rested his head
in the soft lap
of a savior
who remained faceless
as he dreamt and only counted
on the smell of her flesh
to prove that she was real.
to taste her would be too much
maybe...
sweat of peyote inducing
fights and freedom flashing
pasts and dreams and visions
that are so intertwined that
the only thing that is real now is her flesh,
so he counts on that
even though that in fact her flesh
may be the least real of all these
ghosts.

And if it's not real, what would be the harm
in tasting, he thought in a half asleep slumber.
what would be the harm in drinking her
instead of one more refill of emptiness.
what would happen if there were
no
more
questions
and only tounges, teeth, and drying lips
finding rivers of red and life and open
scars bleeding out innate proverbs of truth
that maybe if he had
the courage to look
her in the eyes
he could face
his own truth
that now
with each taste
of this phantom savior
comes anyway

and his fur begins to shed
and break and rip.
Thread unraveling
revealing wool...

and nightmares of fences,
locked gates, and
following the herd...

and the birth of an epic quest
that started with a murder,
a needle, a thread, and
a wild desire to be free.

He remained there lying in the
wetness of everything
that just poured out....

truly free at last
not trapped in his idea of freedom...
not one thing or the other.

not fur or wool.

not just running free

not just locked away

not any one thing

but wholly himself

as he sat up one last time
and saw his savior's eyes
that were deep,
distant,
and in fact real.

She then dug into his
shoulder sack
for the money owed her,
and only found the heart
of a wolf...

Then, seeing the dead heart
he carried with him in lieu
of being able to replace his
own with that one
that now
is as useful as
a shapeless
metal piece
of almost art,
he pulled a blanket
around himself
to vaguely
protect him from the
oncoming
coldest chill

as he at last
in his final moments
remembered that time
when he took that life
to save his own...
but always knew in truth,

real change is
never about
the fur.