The Hour of the Wolf

[tectak]

The Hour of the Wolf (edit 4)

Fog engulfs a lonely shack.
Inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing at a cold steel cross;
repenting, for a kingdom lost.
He brings his baggage of despair;
a supernatural wolf rules there.
There is no exit from
himself, no place to run.
Is his repentance any hope,
his desperate prayer
for his despair, he thinks.

Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
(the wolf who crouches in his lair),
with tearing claws and gripping jaws;
rips apart the baggage of despair, which
mingles freely, with the musty air.
The man stomps
up and down
and round and round,
Surreal voices pierce his ears,
and fuel the fires of his fears.
He throws his hands up to his Lord,
then vomits on the wall and floor.
His heartbeat pounds and roars.
His head spins and races
to memories and faces,
as he paces and paces,
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.
Wounds incurred
that steal his breath, his will.
This hour of the wolf is meant to kill.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
A ray of light intrudes
to shine upon;
a battered shell of man, open eyed,
sprawled in disarray across a chair.

The hour of the wolf,
the depth of living hell,
and our despair.




The Hour of the Wolf (edit 3)

Fog engulfs a lonely shack.
Inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing at a cold steel cross;
repenting, for a kingdom lost.
He brings his baggage of despair;
a wolf with supernatural flair.
He's torn by the tearing claws
tormented by the gripping jaws.




Surreal voices pierce his ears
that fuel the fires of his fears.

His heartbeat is a frantic pace.
His head begins to spin and race,
to memories and faces;
as he paces and paces,
on the shadows of
the vomit stained floor.

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





The Hour of the Wolf (edit 2)

Fog engulfs the lonely shack,
inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing, at a cold steel cross
repenting, of a Kingdom lost.
He's brought his baggage of despair;
a wolf with supernatural flair,
dressed to kill in a suit of hair.
With tearing claws and
gripping unrelenting jaws,
the hour of the wolf is near
there is no exit from
no place to run from here
no angel's wings to bless
this man made loss
a kindom lost
The man begins to pace,
his heartbeat is a frantic race.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding onto floor and wall,
his head spins and races
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.

He suffers from the tearing claws
the pain of unrelenting jaws,
of the wolf who awaits,
for a fearful weeping place,
now sucks his living breath,
his will:
The hour of the wolf,
is meant to kill.

The clock on 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 of living hell
and our despair.


The Hour of the Wolf (edit 1)

Dense fog,
engulfs the lonely shack.
A man in black repents his loss
sobbing at a cold steel cross.
The suitcase he brings,
full only with despairing things.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the wolf needs no human flair
to tear the suitcase of despair,
now free to fill the musty air.
His stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and walls.
His head spins and races,
to memories and faces,
as he paces
and paces,
among the shadows
of the blood red vomit stained floor.
He suffers from the tearing claws,
the clenching unrelenting jaws
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 clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn.
END?( I have been encouraged to end on the repetitive theme, therefore setting the last scene?)
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.


The Hour of the Wolf (original version)

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 crouches in his lair,
razor sharp, his tearing claws
and dripping clenching
unrelenting jaws,
the wolf it needs no human flair
the tear the suitcase of despair
let free engulfs the musty air
lSurreal voices pierce his ears,
to fuel the fires of his fears,
his stomach bleeds acidic gall
exploding on the floor and wall;
his head begins to spin and race,
to dreaded memories and faces,
as he paces,
and paces,
among the shadows
on 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 clock up on 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
of our despair.

It's betta, Loretta but it still ain't quite right It is troubling to me, that if I assume that you have read this piece slowly and out loud, you cannot see the places where the words become convoluted. Maybe it is how you speak but some parts are still very odd constructs of language. I will only tell you where if you cannot spot the knots...oh, you are obsessively using the "despair" word. It needs cutting back.
Best,
tectak