Wolves
The skies have darkened, clouds gloomy and looming low.
The wind turns bitter, and lashes out biting white snow.
The howling rain freezes, teases, burns.
The wolves have come, chasing in turns.
The heart in her beats furiously, clawing her chest,
the cold upon her cheeks, her flesh, slows her its best.
The soaked cloak strangles her; she removes it, quiets a scream,
trying desperately not to trip, and trying to get free.
Her raven-feather hair whips and blinds her eyes,
and she stumbles in the darkness, under a moon glowing white.
The trees of the forest seem to reach at her with their fingertips.
Breath rapid with horror, she trips over the brush
and snaps the twigs.
The eyes of the Undead glowing,
the wolves chase her, cursed fury gloating.
Ransom her blood, they will, thirst riding their souls,
turn her into the dead,
where not even a whisper lulls...
Her screams turn to blood.
Her fingers become still and frozen,
her face pale,
her soul...
death's token.
3.2.08
YOU ARE READING
RIP
PoetryTwisted. Fearful. Beating. Harmony: Dark imagery of an ex-psychopath written in poetry. Rest in Peace, my little straight jacket. Enjoy the reading, my friends!
