The Hour of The Wolf Deadly quiet at the lonesome shack the darkest hours from which theres no way back deep in the woods the suitcase he brings full only with despairing things no rest for him even in this quiet lonely place there is no exit from no place to run despair dressed in a suit of hair the wolf it crouches in his lair with razor sharp, his tearing claws and dripping clenching unrelenting jaws, the wolf it needs no human flair the suitcase of despair to tear and clouds of screaming woes let free, disburse to fill the musty air. And surreal voices pierce his ears to fuel the fires of his fears his stomach churns acidic paste erupting forth on floors and walls his head begins to spin and races to dreaded memories and faces as he paces and paces, among the shadows on the blood red vomit stained floor the hour of the wolf has come, again to him who in such lonely places cannot win, nor erase the wicked claws the biting faces of the wolf who crouches in uninvited places to occupy once clean spaces now sucks his living breath the life of him, his will this hour of the wolf is meant to kill even the clock upon the wall it ticks, ticks, ticks, approaching dawn unknowing of the violent storm a ray of light intrudes to shine upon a battered shell of man sprawled across a chair the hour of the wolf: the depth and living hell, of our despair g.e.Kaye (edited 3/23/14)
Posted on: Mon, 24 Mar 2014 01:37:48 +0000
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