Done To Death


I tried to write a poem
But it's all been done to death
The moon, the stars, a distant howl
The puff of frozen breath

Those paths are thick with paw prints
Of those who've gone before
And it takes a foolish poet
To think he could add more

What good's a wolfish fancy
When you're stuck with skin and shoes
And there's a pile of filk and films
From which you're free to choose?

There is no point save ego
A pup's need to be heard
To have the pack adore him
And hang upon his word

And so I wrote no poem
Of claw or fang or fur
For nothing I say matters
With what has gone before


--Tonin, October 30th, 2019