Rays from a too-distant moon shone upon her body, peacefully she sleeps in the oasis of the desert. Waking, she slips from the hull of the boat into the ambient water: London Bridge is falling down.

In the water she wants no other, under it she avoids all bother.

Arising from the water she peers to the shore; a desolate wasteland all around. Standing upon the shores of my ruin, a shadow, a wolf. Gray eyes meet green, an anguished howl stirs the stillness of the night air.

A dire wolf upon the shore, a wasteland forevermore, may a dying man drink rare waters?

Sedona sunrises ignite redrock, infernos blaze hinting of primordial pasts and souls that once sung and danced ‘round the fire. From far away, upon the pinnacle of a rock tower, a small object, again the wolf, neck stretched to the moon; a nocturnal fugue for the demiurge. Souls visit, dancing in the ethereal flumes of an old Indian ceremony, a sacred ritual, performed in smoky fire long ago. Chants, Visions, Prayers. The curse. Chronos has gone. Suffering of the soul.

Broken rocks, forgotten talks, a passed night in the record, tomorrow ‘waits, forever late, wanting to be adored.

The wolf stares out over water. Eyes. Awaiting a day of harmony, he hopes he doesn’t frighten, his howl an entreaty. He peers out, never really knowing of another, his haggard visage bends to drink. Stones under paws, broken rocks; I am always bleeding. He hungrily laps up the water. Against the shores of my ruin. An empty belly. A howl. He turns and returns to his wasteland. He is the master, its beauty—his, its misery—his desolation of the soul.