Silent woe

Whose face do I hold in these paws?
So coarse the lines that run this face that I do hold in paws so weary
Why when I look into the reflection does it not tell me? Why does it not
say?
Blood or water, friend or foe
So hard to recognise the splinters in my palm
Flowers by the stream house horrors aplenty, their appeal a mask for
their nature
Wise wolf says " Those who know their friends, know themselves"
Yet the world is not so black and white though is it wise wolves of past
blood?
Blood or water I ask myself again, though the answer is never clear
The line does blur, oh how it blurs.
But where does it end
Whose face do I shelter in these paws o' mine, so weary and sore?

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Aequitas, in the year 404 AD.