The Hour of the Wolf
Upon rough trod earth and decaying leaves.
Through tangled bushes and falling streams.
Creak of willow, the rush of wind, anticipation closing in.
A silver wisp beneath the hunter’s moon, a silent shadow when in gloom.
Scent of fear in the air, growing as the beast draws near.
Ripping flesh, gnashing bone. The wolven hunter shall not atone.
A poem by Furrion 17
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Goddamn awesome, look forward to more. Also please teach me :-)
Thanks mate :). I like to share some of the small poems I write from time to time here. Glad that you enjoyed it.
Here's a list of the poems and stories I got on the Forge so far if you're interested
https://theskyforge.ning.com/groups/the-story-corner/general-forum/...