Of Wolves and X-Men.

An old man,
the never ending,
fighting to stay alive,
with sharp claws,
and weathered crows feet,
eyes that show time,
with a face as young as stretched leather,

He drives,
drunks and hens,
to survive,
the psychics final days,

In ways,
they find him,
remind him of life gone by,
they weren’t quick enough to draw,

Out the blood comes,
on heated roads,
like soup,
bubbling over,

They are all gone,
he reminds himself,
the Phoenix,
and the Storm,
The Metal Mind,
the Chameleon,
his brother,
and the Jewel,
all lost to a mutant crown,

All but one,
a wolf,
in a babe’s skin,
viciously cute,
evolved and made,

Another copy,
to save and die another day,

This old man,
he hurt himself again,
hurt himself,
to feel,

To feel,
he becomes the father,
a father to all,
the next generation,
of stylized biological construction,
ensuring the antagonists destruction,

All on a sharp skelfing spike,
no magic can heal,
when your gifts come to poison you,
you really have nothing left,

They laid him down,
as the little girl howled,
he breath gave out,

The wolverine,
old man,


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