The Hour of the Wolf

[LorettaYoung]

I wrote this over emotional poem 2 months ago and have been itching to make it better; with lots of help. Now I'll go to edit 6 if I can find it? Thanks again, remember, I am trying! Loretta

---

The Hour of the Wolf (edit 5)

Midnight church bells ringing slight;
deep through the woods this eerie night?????????? i would get rid of "the"


Fog engulfs a lonely shack.
Inside, a trembling man in black
kneels sobbing at a cold steel cross:
repenting, for a kingdom lost.comma? I'm not a grammar guy but...
He brings his baggage of duress;
within the wolf, his fear and stress.mmmm i love it
There is no exit from himselfi think this is a bit lazy compared to the rest of the poem. Isnt the wolf his exit? Even if he's not a fan.
no place to run.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the constant presence always there;
with tearing claws and gripping jaws.
Surreal voices fill his ears
fueling fires to his fears;
the wolf's descent upon his will

This 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 and living hell
and our despair.

I still feel like part of the story is missing.

---

Thank you Q for reading and commenting. Despair lives inside the man; the wolf is a metaphor showing the destructiveness of despair. Best, Loretta

---

---

Hi tectak: gall: something bitter or severe. Quite. NOT acidicThe man brings in his internal baggage of despair, which is the wolf within. Loretta Then say so in the poem by showing not telling

---

tectak; tell me that a man hearing surreal voices has not been through a storm! Loretta

---

The Hour of the Wolf (edit 5)

Midnight church bells ringing slight;
deep through the woods this eerie night??????????I choose to completely ignore this. You should, too


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 duress;
within the wolf, his fear and stress.
There is no exit from himself
no place to run.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the constant presence always there;
with tearing claws and gripping jaws.
Surreal voices fill his ears
fueling fires to his fears; fuelling the fire of his fears....surely
the wolf's descent upon his willPeriod.

This hour of the wolf
is meant to kill. The hour of the wolf is time to kill. All on one line. Dual purpose but in one room I could argue a cliche. Still your call.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn; Getting difficult now.
The clock on the wall, it
tick
tick
ticks the approaching dawn;
not knowing of the violent storm.
What storm. Oh, I don't know. I am not knowing.
unknowing of the violent storm.
A ray of light intrudes
to shine upon; AAAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH! Why the semi colon?
a battered shell of man "The" not "a". You need to be definitive or it could be a complete bloody stranger who has nothing to do with this story and who happened by and got himself unfortunated, as you might say. Shells traditionally get broken...fish get battered
sprawled across a chair.

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

Apart from that, well I need a massage.
Best,
tectak[/b]



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.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
(the wolf who crouches in his lair),
has tearing claws and gripping jaws;
He cannot hide, there is no exit
from, his self, no place to run.
Surreal voices pierce his ears,
and fuel the fires of his fears.
He throws his hands up to the air
rips his clothes and flings a chair.
His stomach grips and roars,
he vomits on the wall and floors.
His heartbeat is a pounding pace,
His head begins to spin and race,
to tormenting memories and faces,
as he paces and paces,
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.
The man has no control or 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.

---

The Hour of the Wolf (edit 5)

Midnight church bells ringing slight;
deep through the woods this eerie night??????????I choose to completely ignore this. You should, too


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 duress;
within the wolf, his fear and stress.
There is no exit from himself
no place to run.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
the constant presence always there;
with tearing claws and gripping jaws.
Surreal voices fill his ears
fueling fires to his fears; fuelling the fire of his fears....surely
the wolf's descent upon his willPeriod.

This hour of the wolf
is meant to kill. The hour of the wolf is time to kill. All on one line. Dual purpose but in one room I could argue a cliche. Still your call.

The clock on the wall, it
ticks
ticks
ticks
approaching dawn; Getting difficult now.
The clock on the wall, it
tick
tick
ticks the approaching dawn;
not knowing of the violent storm.
What storm. Oh, I don't know. I am not knowing.
unknowing of the violent storm.
A ray of light intrudes
to shine upon; AAAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH! Why the semi colon?
a battered shell of man "The" not "a". You need to be definitive or it could be a complete bloody stranger who has nothing to do with this story and who happened by and got himself unfortunated, as you might say. Shells traditionally get broken...fish get battered
sprawled across a chair.

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

Apart from that, well I need a massage.
Best,
tectak[/b]



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.
Despair dressed in a suit of hair,
(the wolf who crouches in his lair),
has tearing claws and gripping jaws;
He cannot hide, there is no exit
from, his self, no place to run.
Surreal voices pierce his ears,
and fuel the fires of his fears.
He throws his hands up to the air
rips his clothes and flings a chair.
His stomach grips and roars,
he vomits on the wall and floors.
His heartbeat is a pounding pace,
His head begins to spin and race,
to tormenting memories and faces,
as he paces and paces,
on the shadows
of the vomit stained floor.
The man has no control or 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.

---

And wasn't he beaten up (battered), and is there not a phase a shell of man when he is empty.?