The Hour of the Wolf

[rowens]

the wolf it crouches in his lair.
With razor sharp, his tearing claws,
and dripping, unrelenting jaws.
The wolf it needs no human flair
to tear the suitcase of despair,
and clouds of screaming woes
let free, disburse to fill the musty air.

I like "musty air" in this poem. But all the lines above feel unnecessary and sloppily placed together.



his stomach bleeds acidic waste
erupting forth on floor and walls.
His head begins to spin and race,
to dreaded memories and faces;
as he paces,
and paces, among the shadows
of the blood red vomit stained floor.

Though, with a little work, you'll have something with these lines.