I came for a world of perpetual cold,
Where the cities float so high they do more than scrape the sky,
To live in a world where you never get old,
Isn’t a paradise, and that is no lie.
Things old are new,
Powered by steam,
They push their way through,
Cutting through clouds like crossing a stream.
Wolves are kept as pets,
Silver chains wrapped around our necks,
We are often made to visit the vets,
Who cut and stitch silver, just for their checks.
They want to keep us silent,
No plans, to keep us from being violent.
Set in a world I’ve considered writing about for some time. It’s the home of a little werewolf boy named Isaiah. The poem is told from his point of view.