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.

***Author’s Note***

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.