Claiming the Owl.
They try to capture the spirit of the Owl,
use his mask for their own twisted or secret ways.
Falsifying the face of wisdom, noble and proud,
as they chase his shadow through hollow days.
All attempts to seize him, well, they fly away.
Like Warriors on the field in borrowed paint,
like Chiefs upon the helmets, falsely proud and tall,
they steal the cry, the feather, and the name,
then call it honor when the old gods fall.
Marketing and selling something not theirs to call.
Patriots and Hawks in jerseys bright,
they strut and roar beneath the stadium lights.
They claim the totem, wear it through the fight,
but never feel how true wings cut the night.
Only non human silent wisdom will know that flight..
Others don cheap plastic hats and dress in black,
and call themselves the witches of the hour.
A pointed brim, a cloak hung on their back ..
they chant and spin, yet the Owl still only holds power.
Winged flier above just turns their ancient head,
and watches every costume fade to dust.
No logo, team, or coven, left or red,
can trap the silent hunter’s quiet thrust.
They claim the Chief, the Hawk, the Witch, the Wise,
they brand the night and sell the flight by the pound.
But symbols slip their greedy hands and rise,...
the Owl still hunts where no pretender’s found.
So wear your masks and wave your wands,
dress up the dark in slogans, crests, and cheers.
The wings beat beyond your reaching hands...
untamed, unclaimed, for countless coming years.
The spirit flies as the claimants stand below,
forever chasing what they’ll never own.
The flight of the Owl belongs to one
that-my friend- no human will ever truly know.
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