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Once, there were three wolves.

One, blue.
A blue so deep, so resounding in hue,
The deep night itself couldn't compare to its majesty.

One, red. A red so deep, it resembled the crimson coursing through prey.
The red that spilled when wolf-fang struck,
The red that gave life to prey, and to predator.
As blood ran, so did the red wolf.

The final, green.
The wolf green was the weakest of wolves.
The slowest, the weakest, the one filled with envy.
This wolf would not hunt.
Rather, he scavenged, and stole.

Red met blue, blue green too,
and a pack they themselves made.
Blue was named Preacher,
Red was named Hunter,
and Green was called Thief.

Preacher spread, amongst the others,
The way to live, to work, to be.
Yet Preacher, while aiding the life,
never aided the living.

Hunter provided, for the others,
The sustenance, the food for living,
Yet never added to the life of the pack.

Thief sowed, between the pack,
The seeds of discord, of hate, of mistrust.
Never pulling his weight,
Always stealing for his share.

One night, as Hunter hunts,
Preacher preaches,
And Thief makes mischief,
Times changed.

There was nothing left for Hunter to hunt.
Thus there was nothing left to steal.
Preacher had run out of things to say.

As time wore on,
The relation grew gone,
Wolves, independently well,
In pack antagonized,
And over time,
from each other drifted the wolves.

Thief, with naught more to steal,
Forced he to hunt,
Grew he independent.

Preacher,
with no more to preach to,
he himself degraded.

Hunter,
with no more to speak to,
Grew desolate,
only life in death.

As time wore on,
Their colors grew gone,
And now all the wolves are grey.