the lone wolf in the pack froze
in the chilling year-round winter
keen is his skin to smell the thorns
dodging scratches, shield worn;
yet swords of tongues lash deep,
touching his holy ground of conceit
you can hear his eyes speak tears,
though dry they were and uncried
and the ears are pricked and alert
for the next sound to watch closely
his nose tastes the warnings bitter
for city guards, paving bloody roads
maxjemin 