Poem: The Loving Shepard & His Wolves

In the shadowy halls of a heart once bruised,

Where echoes linger of love misused,

I wandered the abyss with eyes wide shut,

A phoenix rising from ashes, but still caught in the rut.

With each flared temper, each tear-soaked night,

I forged my intuition, a flickering light,

A map etched in scars, a compass of pain,

Every ounce of their venom, my knowledge to gain.

I learned their ways, their masks, and their charms,

Those wolves in sheep’s clothing, with hidden harms,

I took to my studies with fierce determination,

To craft out a beacon for the lost and the shaken.

Books piled high, in the silence they spoke,

Of cycles and traumas, of the cruelest of “jokes”.

My fingers danced on the keyboard each night,

In search of some solace, in search of the light.

I aimed to give a voice to those crushed by the weight,

To offer them courage, to shred off the hate.

“Let me be your shelter,” I whispered in the dark,

For in the healing, I hoped to ignite a spark.

But oh, the irony was sharp as a knife,

In a quest for the wounded, I attracted more strife.

Men with sad stories, with eyes full of tears,

Came drifting like phantoms, all heavy with fears.

"Help us, dear shepherd, we’re lost in this fight,”

They’d croon with sweet longing, cry out their plight.

Yet, as they approached with their stories of woe,

I soon found their howls were that of a foe.

With the heart of a lion, I opened my door,

Little knowing their “nature” would turn to a chore.

For vulnerabilities shared became bait for their “game,”

And a foe dressed as friend would move in for the claim.

To all who’ve been battered, and those who remain,

We’ll trudge through the shadows—we know of the pain.

Intuition may come from the worst of our past,

But it’s built into strength, like a cast iron mast.

So here’s to the fighters, the bruised and the bold,

In a world full of wolves, let your stories be told.