In shadows cast beneath the lunar glow,
a silhouette of grace looms.
The lone wolf roams this ancient land
to seek his wildest heart in the darkest night.
His eyes, twin orbs of amber fire
hold tales of a mysterious past
of this battle-hardened assassin’s creed
hiding ambition that could burn the entire plain
in moonlight’s whiteness by a dot of rendered gray.
He let go a haunting, mournful howl,
perhaps a battle cry or serenade,
that echoes a long way
across the hills and forests vast,
to his ancestors who vowed the same oath,
dubbed as the noblest moon knights.
Yet, still, he walks the path untamed,
with paws that pound loneliness’s own beat,
that races with death’s speed,
that tramples weakness and fear in their hotbed
in moon’s honor and jungle’s command
to roam in forever freedom ever so grand.
