The Hour of the Wolf

[billy]

for me the poem feels too wordy. it's hard to explain without re writing the poem which is something i'm not keen on doing.

Deadly quiet,
at the lonesome shack;
the darkest hours from which
there's no way back.

deathly dark buries the vacant shack

can you say the same thing in one or two lines? the last two lines say almost nothing of relevance. the first line is a given as it's a lonesome shack,
the three main things you have here are dark and quiet and shack.
i'm not sure deadly is a good word choice unless the quiet kills people. a suggestion is deathly quiet which means something to do with death. it could also be deathly dark, which removes the redundant quiet and the need for the third line. when i think of lonesome, i think of cowboy, a suggestions are; desolate, deserted, abandoned, or vacant..there are lots of other words can do a better job than lonesome.

you can break down most of the poem in order to bring it closer together.

this quiet lonely place;
there is no exit from,

we know it quite, it's already been said, we also no it's lonely
the 2nd line is very wordy.

a place you don't leave

look out for cliches, deep in the woods is common hrase when used in such poetry.

also watch for forced meter,

the wolf it crouches in his lair.

it is the forced part of the meter
it's can be okay to write;

the wolf crouches in his lair.
specially if you're not sticking to a rigid meter.
there is some other points but i've already given a lot of food for thought so i'll wait to see if there's an edit
thanks for the read.

The Hour of the Wolf

Deadly quiet,
at the lonesome shack;
the darkest hours from which
there's no way back.
Deep in the woods
the suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things.
No rest for him, even in
this quiet lonely place;
there is no exit from,
no place to run.

Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
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.
Surreal voices pierce his ears
to fuel the fires of his fears;
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.

The hour of the wolf has come,
again to him,
who in such lonely places,
cannot win, nor
erase the wicked claws,
the biting faces
of the wolf who crouches
in uninvited places,
to occupy once clean spaces:
now sucks his living breath
the life of him, his will
this hour of the wolf
is meant to kill.

The tired clock upon the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
Unknowing of the violent storm
a ray of light intrudes
to shine upon,
a battered shell of man
sprawled across a chair.
The hour of the wolf;
the depth and living hell,
and our despair.