274/365 Lupus poem

There is a disease called wolf,
teeth the size of IV needles
and a roar as torturous as LCD monitors.

It wears butterflies across it’s face
flapped wings taunting.
I have heard the stories of conquering sheep.
Of ewes and tups wrestling full size
illuding hunters strategy such as strokes, heart attacks and immune system shut downs.

I have heard tales,
of innocent creatures being attack by this beast.
My friend is 17 years old and diagnosed,
things look bleek,
but I’ve heard too many story.
Too many stories,
too many,
“I wrestle with the beast every day,
every day is a battle in hopes that I can win some unforeseen war.
Be able to see my grand-kids,
to live a full life.
To wrap arms around my Shepard and here Him tell me well done”
I’ve heard too many Horus versus Set proclamations for those deemed too weak to face a lycan.

There are too many hooves prints marking this monster for me to think him untouchable.
There is hope.
I was once told if you don’t know the answer,
read a book.

So I take comfort in David in Goliath,
Good conquers evil.

I take comfort in the cosmic qualities of synchronicities.
I’ve heard too many allegories and compositions
of sheep staring wolves in the eyes and refusing to back down.
I’ve met too many women,
with wool woven hair,
and galaxy painted cheeks.
Black sheep,
in the sense that they are the only ones
with the ability to take down a wolf.

I’ve heard so many stories.
Of the impossible.