The ancient trees, they block the sun, A path I should not have begun. My breath is short, my steps are slow, A dread of where I have to go. The basket that I hold feels like a stone, I face the dark, and face it all alone. A crack of twigs, a rustle deep, Awakens me from sleep's soft keep. Two ember eyes begin to gleam, Inside the waking, breathing dream. So fear will paint the wolf a giant in the night, A monstrous form of panic, blinding in its height. You can choose to feed the beast, and let its shadow grow, Or draw your line and learn the strength you never thought you'd know. His form is cut from midnight's finest cloth, A living blasphemy, a polished oath. A grin that holds a promise of despair, And perfumed malice hanging in the air. He is the final truth you can't outrun, The elegant and unforgiving sun. "Go on, little lamb, you can try to run, It only makes the tasting more fun. Flee through the thorns, let them tear at your skin, I love the fresh terror before I begin." I remember what my mother said, "Face the thing you most of dread." I drop the basket, stand up tall, And watch the mighty monster stall. The wolf's own doubt begins to bloom, Inside this self-made, fearful gloom. So fear will paint the wolf a giant in the night, A monstrous form of panic, blinding in its height. You can choose to feed the beast, and let its shadow grow, Or draw your line and learn the strength you never thought you'd know. "Run, little fool, don't stand and stare... This isn't right... this isn't fair... Why don't you fear me? Can't you see? This wasn't how it's meant to be!" I saw the wolf for what he was, and watched him turn to go, A coward feasting on the fear we feed and help to grow. He wants no part of those who stand, who know their worth and name, For prey that doesn't run from him just leaves him starved and tame. The wolf still walks these woods somewhere, But I'm the hunter. I'm the heir. And every time I hear his call, I stand a little bit more tall.
