]¦•¦[ The Smokey Vixen ]¦•¦[

In the quiet corners of the psyche, where the light begins to fail,
The Smokey Vixen wanders, tracing out a silver trail.

She is not the hunter, nor is she the frightened prey;
She is the muffled echo of the things we push away.

Her fur is spun from twilight, from the secrets we disown,
The unvoiced grief, the hidden shames, the seeds we haven’t sown.

She does not bark or bite at ghosts; she sits within the gloom,
A silent, smoke-hued witness in a long-forgotten room.

She invites you to the thicket, to the brambles and the mud,
To the places where the instinct meets the churning of the blood.

For the Vixen knows the medicine that’s hidden in the dark:
There is no golden morning without the ember and the spark.

]¦•¦[ 🖤 ]¦•¦[