(15) Peace Never Lasts Poem by J.B. LeBuert

(15) Peace Never Lasts

Rating: 2.8

If only the Shewolves could live in lasting peace.
The greed of the humans and their lust never cease.
The gold fever and need for more money won't stop.
It would be magic if the wolves came out on top.

A new arrival was now on the scene today.
A mate for the Shewolf has come, and not to play.
He is wilder, meaner, and more deadly you see.
A monster in wolves' clothing is stalking with glee.

The feisty artist is in the glade unaware.
She had forgot that the woods can more than just scare.
Her great love for the Shewolves has dulled her senses.
In moments she'd wish for electrified fences.

The vile Hewolf now caught her alluring sweet scent.
She could run quite fast, but death she couldn't prevent.
The artist sprinted, now knowing her likely fate.
Her screams were muffled; the wolf ate and ate and ate.

She was not missed because the Shewolves were not there.
They had gone on a hunt of their own, not a care.
When they returned, the smell of death was all around.
The remains of the artist were not to be found.

They knew what had happened and they howled at the moon.
The villagers awoke to this mournful sad tune.
They knew not of the latest arrival that day.
They would blame the Shewolves and vowed they would soon pay.

The word soon spread throughout the whole village that night.
They were afraid of the wolves and of their own plight.
Many believed that the Shewolves were not to blame.
Those with the power disagreed; Oh, what a shame.

The blood lust still ran deep in these greedy mortals.
The loss of the artist brought curses and chortles.
Many of the humans wanted blood all along.
They hated the Shewolves and said they don't belong.

The hunt was on again, it started that sad night.
The wolves sensed the village hate and moved out of sight.
The crowd that gathered was a poor choice of grim casts.
It's always the same with men, the Peace Never Lasts.

The fifteenth poem of the twenty poem Shewolf Saga. Each line of each poem contains twelve syllables and the title is the last words of each of the uniquely formatted poems.
J.B. LeBuert

J.B. LeBuert

Kenmore, New York
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