(19) The Creator Poem by J.B. LeBuert

(19) The Creator

Rating: 2.7

The posse of twenty was still gone on the hunt.
The sixteen wolves were fleeing from the hunter's front.
The trackers and hunters had supplies that would last.
It was raining hard, and the trail was fading fast.

The wolves could travel much faster than their pursuit.
The hunters thought they might try a short cutoff route.
The sly band thought that they could outfox the 'dumb beast'.
They cut through the dense jungle, off to the northeast.

Back at the fort some of the villagers got sick.
It started at first with a fever that came quick.
By week's end the whole fort was hurting and ailing.
They sent a scout for help, many were fast failing.

By the third week, the smell of death was in the fort.
The scout was gone for two weeks, without a report.
They didn't know that he had died, when two days out.
He was too weak to cry out, crawl back, or to shout.

The fort was silent, even the cattle had died.
Nothing now lived there, only the buzzards survived.
The posse slowed, with even the trackers now sick.
They decided to head home, they had to be quick.

They got back to the fort, only three were alive.
But now they were sick too, would anyone survive?
The next week brought down the decisive black curtain
On the humans whose answer was gold, for certain.

Nothing had survived this awful deadly sickness.
It had struck there with unprecedented quickness.
The humans, their lust for money, along with their greed
caused their downfall, and their village, to not succeed.

The wolf pack was hundreds of miles to the northwest,
Not knowing the humans had failed so, in their quest.
They would return to their cave in a month or two,
only to find that their misfortune was now through.

When they arrived back at their homeland late one night,
The smell of death still in the air, caused them no fright.
They'd first sleep tonight, and investigate later.
These happenings, were they caused by The Creator?

The nineteenth 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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