Of wolf, of dragon, of man;
of the future, of the past,
of the presant, I can't scan,
so my soul I fear won't last.

Is it real? Is it fake?
Is it just a big mistake?
But then what about the others?

Are we feared? Are we hated?
Is their thirst for "normal" sated?
And what about our mothers?

Do I know? Do I care?
Should this poem I really share?
The answer to these is no.

I don't care, and I should not,
and in my mind I just could not.
I just can't help it, though

Of dragon, of wolf, of man;
Of the magic, of the free,
and of truth, buried in sand
that's all I'll ever want to be.