The Hour of the Wolf

The Hour of the Wolf3923579071?profile=RESIZE_710x

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 :-)

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