The Wolves of Grief

I couldn’t outrun the wolves for long. How long can I stave them off?

They are howling at the base of the tree. my grip; slipping. Their noses snarled. Their teeth gnashing. The question may be: which will devour me first?

Anger looks viscous, and if consumed by it who know how I may devastate those whom I care about. What will set me off? It circles the tree jumping and snapping at my heels.

Sadness prowls slowly with fangs flashing and a low growl. If it bites down, I fear that nothing will get it to release.

Perhaps the most dangerous is the one I can hardly see. Apathy stalks from the thickets waiting for me to fall into its strike so that it can pick my life apart bit by bit.

Keep it together. Keep my head in the game. Too much is at stake.

…What will I feed the wolves?

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