In the heart of the rust carpeted woods
the hounds are harmonising their howling,
whilst underneath the feathered cloud hoods
the moon’s face is discerningly scowling.
The man runs with his eyes over his shoulder,
darting to find what he fears the most.
As the night is slowly drawing colder
the wolves' jaws are rapidly drawing close.
Scrambling to the haven of an old oak tree,
he's unaware that the wolves have caught his scent.
They stroll around in circles hungrily
waiting for his composure to be spent.
And sure enough, he soon flees to a new place
where he hopes he can safely hide away
but the wolves can easily match his pace
and they feed on each failure's dismay.
If only he knew to face his fear and fight;
to growl right back at their toying voices
then the wolves would look elsewhere for a bite
and he wouldn't need to such hard choices.
See, he would run out of places to hide
if he insisted on feeling afraid;
a victim of his own misguided pride
and decisions that were forced to be made.
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