it feels so itchy, i'm getting famished.
my stomach aches, fidgeting this madness.
i'm a night owl, begging for a wolf —
to devour my flesh, and to feel this steaming heat.

far beyond the woods,
there's once a boy, who lives strategically;
and it all flipped, when roses turned 18.
he ravaged, squirmed and raze avalanche.

the ice turned so cold, as comfort diffuses.
he needed heat, he thinks he's free and strong,
and all it takes was becoming a sheep;
and be the supply of the wolf's clothing.

it felt heaven, he tasted the skies;
the night becomes his glory — a time for hunt.
he could not evade it, his mind is constant awake;
and he made his thoughts prevail to temptations of the full moon.

he runs like a fearless warrior,
he tore his life out of the locked container;
he failed his dear people—
but he chose to be the wolf's toy in the moonlight.

it was fun for him, but for how long?
he sometimes said, "it feels addicting and,
it becoming a toxic poison to carry."
oh, how could this sheep last in the wolf's clothing?