A fairy tail without an ending

The wolf does not stand for wildness alone.

It stands for movement without arrival.

Its fur is unkempt, grey, marked by battles

that were not won, only survived.

Scars tell of paths taken too often

and yet never leading to a destination.

Before it lies an open book.

No story being read.

No truth that can be held.

The pages are scratched, torn open,

like traces of teeth and claws.

As if something tried to hold on

and left nothing behind but wounds.

The wolf does not stay.

It does not linger in warmth or shelter.

Even where light falls,

it remains tense, ready to leap.

Behind it, the night.

Ahead, no direction that endures.

Only instinct.

Only flight.

Only moving on.

This image does not speak of good or evil.

It speaks of fear.

Of inner restlessness.

Of the difficulty of standing still

when one has never learned how to arrive.

Perhaps that is what remains: a fairy tale without an ending.