Whispers to the Hound

"Your mission makes you look very ugly,"
said the whisper to the hound so smugly.
The hound rebels with a snarl, a fight,
holding me back—perish the thought, out of sight.

Tasks to complete, jobs more fit,
no time for whispers, no place to sit.
So off she goes, in merriment’s flight,
a harsh reality cloaked in the night.

Fate never yields, slamming its doors,
the hound runs on, her spirit implores.
The night progresses, a journey so dire—
what's waiting ahead, in the darkness conspired?

The whisper lingers, echoes on through,
but the hound stays true, defying the view.
For what is a mission if not her own?
A destiny written, a path unknown.