Read the latest from The Source: ‘May the Wolf Die’ by Nina Naidu
It’s not as though you’ve had your fill.
Each night, a lunar eclipse, a bitter pill,
As if you weep, a call to the throng who long
To ravish me with a siren’s song.
You promise them sustenance, to nurture and feed
The hunger inside until your mouth bleeds.
But you persist, so jagged and raw,
Where you find your prey is the luck of the draw.
It’s not as though you’ve had your share.
The lamb now still, no need to steal
Its organs as if you strive to find
The heart you yearn to redefine.
And claim as your own. But why won’t it fit?
Why even ask? We can both admit
Though countless times, I’d plead and cry,
Those hurtful words, from your lips would fly—
It’s not as though you’ve said your peace.
Tough luck! Your care, a reluctant release.
Words echo, so daring and cruelly profane,
Like shackles on my soul: confine, aim, restrain.
Any last words for your favourite girl?
In this perilous world, where chaos swirls,
Time’s grasp slipping in the cosmos of a final twirl,
Speak now, for soon, our paths unfurl.
Hold on no longer. Release your grip!
Unhinged, unravelled, myself I will strip;
Cohesion lost in the frenzy and fold,
Few words remain for this madness untold.
When you’re all alone, who dries your tears?
Not me — for you’re the only one who hears
This wolf’s cry, your artful deceit.
I will succumb, no longer, to your bitter conceit.
