Lambs

Frantic behind a winterful morn
We whisper and shake
As the drooling mad men,
Snarling and howling,
Circling us into the
Dark room where
We hide.
Their maddening howls
Leaves us whimpering
Louder and Louder.
Then the wolves shuffle away
Slowly backing down from their prey.
And in their muffled retreat,
We quiet down even more
To an even quiet,
A quiet where the sounds of each breath
Break the waves of silences.
Fear prevails us in the small room.
Every second, an hour
Every thought racing through our minds.
Did we just witness what we did?
Will they come back for us?
The waiting is the worst part.
For knowing what may be possibly
Waiting
Outside that room
is worse than any actual harm
that may come to us in leaving.

1/16/2006