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January 26, 2005
The hour of Wolves
At the witching hour
Its the scent of blood,
That calls, carried on wind
Of a thousand mischief, the
Hunger of the pinks, the
Rosey cheecks of the reds,'
I am tender, I ache, every
Bone, pulling the roots of
Every muscle, I am left, restless
At the hour of the wolves,
When my fangs extend, portruding
Beyound my teeth, and my limbs, tear
AT their hard edges, careless,
Brazen and bloated, I stand outside,
And yelp, howling to the calls of the beast,
Crawling on fours, sniffing the grass,
As my skin drags the damp soil spread,
And the moon lost amongst the trees, eager
I find the coarpse, the bones picked, and
Bared, as the scent of the kill hangs,
Cured sour, in the air, I find the
Traces of your paws, lay down and wait,
For you to come back
Posted by Idinraha at January 26, 2005 03:22 PM