The Crying Wolf

A silent wolf walks through the skies,
Of bitter tears, of sad and sorrows,
In midst of ferocity, of anger's fires,
He crawls away, into his burrows,

The wolf is here, the hunter, the predator,
but its eyes, show tears of sorrow and compassion,
Reflected off the moon's silvery rays,
A creature is seen, torn between instinct and Love,
Compassion and fury,
The spirits and mortal souls,
of things earthly, and of the eternal fires..

Feelings of sadness is never nice,
even.. to rats and mice,
Feelings of being torn apart,
Only shows that we're not just one part.  

My hands tremble, my blood turns cold,
but holds a warmth, of Wisdom twofold,
The time is not near death,
but is my very next breath..

He searches far, the lonely wolf,
He seeks all out, but none seeks him,
He is in heaven, but for one problem,
He is alone, with his Lord and Lady..

The time draws close, for the wolf to leave,
for he has said, all that he had to say,
He can be found, where there are fallen leaves,
or you can really hope, and then you pray..

--
A lonely fool walks on.. with the tales of the wolf,
which has since then, became his silent compannion,
and only in times of Autumn, may he be seen,
and with him, the sense of sadness of the end.. the end of another year,
  of another life, and another soul's journey..
--
 Yes, I speak in riddles, or perhaps just gibberish,
But for a wiseman's words, are nothing but gibberish,
  to all but they/he/she/ who understands..
I hereby now sit in front of the flames of water, in times
  neither dark nor light, in the twilight hours,
  between day and night, tapping into realms beyond my own,
There is this coldness of a strange relationship
  between the magus/Pristess/and their magick..
There was once the Priestess who danced with grace in Darkness,
  before another, skilled with a harp joined in,
  she continued to dance,  and he played with his love
They were one.. but they were none,
they were once.. but they are gone..
Their spirits live on., and shall ever be so,
  unless I am the one, the last of them to go..

The tunnel of past glories, die with sweet compassions,
of a rose gone by, of a star long dead,
The tears of sorrow lives on, until all is done,
to forget all that one knows, by imparting to another's soul..

The quill runs dry, the sun is about to die,
only to be refilled, only to resurrect,
the quill shall ever write, as the light shall ever shine,
in an endless cycle, if not here.. some where else in space..
- I hereby rest the quill -

'tis the time of most interest for my words go on and on..
beyond the graves, beyond the times,
  from mouth to mouth, from mind to mind,
Thoughts are there, but shall NEVER exist to be touched..

The time has indeed gone, for my left hand now returns to normal, from 
coldness of sadness, through warmth of Wisdom twofold, to quills of dying
ink..
the Minds shall ever be full to all who seeks it out,
but one's limits, is judged on how much one can forget!