The Constant Wolf - Poem by Sophia White
Friends, they come and go,
Flowing and ebbing, as the tide.
When one steps away, is gone,
Into their place another will slide.
I wonder, ‘What friend will last?
Who shall remain true and trusting? ’
A part of me goes with each passing.
Will I slowly be chipped into nothing?
I love them all dear, and always shall,
But who can dictate our paths and errands?
They may go, but friend they shall remain.
And yet – not the same sort of friends.
To keep a friend, shackled by one’s side,
Is to keep a bird from its freedom flight.
I will not be the one to darken
Someone’s destiny with my night.
But what, then, is left for me?
Am I to slowly ebb away?
I should not think this is friendship,
To sow seeds of decay.
I need one friend. One friend to stay.
I find no one. They will all, by and by,
Drift their separate rivers.
And here am I, with naught but a sigh.
I look around and what should take my eye?
A ragged, hug-worn little thing. A play toy
Bought long-ago in Helen, ages past.
An abounding solace and silent joy.
Timber, little wolf, watching with
Those glassen, obsidian eyes.
He may not talk, or cock his head,
But he will always be mine.
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