wolf senses

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 road.

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