A wolf in sheep’s clothing,
that’s what they call me
since I appear weak and timid,
yet I am feral, quick to rip the flesh of my enemies
and pile their carcasses in a ditch nearby;
a stack high enough that it stands as a threat to others.
I can’t be filled, constantly famished, a bottomless
pit stands as my stomach;
without much effort, I digest the same tricksters
who’ve plotted my demise.
I have no choice but to fend for myself
lest the chances of the hunter being the hunted
will rise quicker than the sun.
Very few survivors have gotten close enough
to see the true color of my eyes,
and like this I shall remain
until the trust of others is acquired.