The wolf sits in wait, surrounded by sheep
Hidden in his jacket of wool, giving no peep.
He baas like the rest of them, giving cover
Holding back his howl, hiding his blubber.
He has been there for over a year
Learning their ways, dismantling fear.
Most would have struck by now,
Most would have eaten their chow.
He does not. He waits, patiently by shepherd.
Knowing one will stray from the white herd.
When that moment comes, he will lunge
Into white turned red madness he will plunge.
His friends ask him when he will go
“A little longer” he replies, “until the show.”
The longer he waits, hunger makes him sway.
His sleek coat becoming matted and gray.
Then one day it happens, a sheep strays
He looks to it and jumps towards his prey.
Teeth snarled, eyes beaded, legs tensed
He opens his slobbed jowls, howls commenced.
There is no howl, only a baa, unrecognizable.
His wolfness is gone, replaced by the undeniable.
He has become that which he was around,
A sheep descendant from wild hound.
I want to know what you, the reader, thinks. Consider leaving a comment and I will reply!
Primitive Poetry 
Love everything about this, slightly Orwellian and profound. Nice one
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Thank you, this one is a little sheepish and dystopian for sure.
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I sense political undertones to this poem the sheep and the wolf are good metaphors. It is true that people and maybe animals too can become like those that they surround themselves with.
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Hey, there are certainly political undertones. If I remember back to when I wrote this, I was specifically writing about my workplace. I was working in a environment that really didn’t foster the starving artist in me, and I found myself not pursuing art such as poetry. When I returned to trying to write poetry, I struggled to recognize the “wolf” of a poet inside of me and I was worried that I had lost it.
Thankfully, it returned. I am of course inconsistent with my posting of poetry, but I am strengthening the wolf inside of me. That loneness that pursues the prey of art for the pack (the people).
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