The leather breathes, a well-worn sigh,
Fifteen years beneath my hand.
A map of joys against the sky,
Etched deep within this land.
The future looms, a shadowed coast,
Of solitude and fading light.
But here, a gathering of ghosts,
Of laughter burning ever bright.
Each entry, a small, defiant flame,
Against the coming of the night.
A testament to joy’s sweet name,
A beacon, holding back the blight.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 