Colors Of The Wind

The spirit of a wolf rests in my soul, peaceful yet wild, with the lightness in my feet as I run through the trees, the wind blowing through my fur reminding me of the grace that flows within. Can you hear the howls over each mountaintop to the soft whispers between the trees, the icy breath as time goes by, slowly guiding the way. My foot prints marking my path, each creature is seen as weak, the feeling of thorns piercing our skin. As I soar through the night looking up at the pale blue moon and listen to the whistle of the wind. As a wolf I protect, the silence of my pack is what keeps me intact, my wild eyes glow where I stood knowing I am king to my forest wood, up high in the biggest cliff over the horizon I can see the world, as if I was tamed again; I felt trapped in my own insanity, begging to be let out. The colors of the wind gives me hope, with all the shades and smears of my skin, the wonderful smell of fresh cold air, as it hits my face the colors of the wind seem to change the location of where one's heart wants to go, whether it be north, east, south or west, a wolf's cry will always be there to guide but who am I without my cry.