Third Draft

March of the Grey Wolves

Silent eyes leer,
watch and wait.
The cold dark night spurns,
only horrid haste.
Through this darkness, the mist, this face,
into this wood, an unholy race.
Fearless, every step it takes,
Red eyes peering,
through the woods, much deeper,
luring,
the mist ensorcelles
and foot steps patter
Upon
The forest floor.

Hunger binds its heart,
this seeking silent hunter.
It moves ever
Intelligently, deceptively, so cunningly.
What poor creature, is it preying?
You can almost hear the poor thing
Praying.
Tracking its sweet scent
Under shadow of deep moonlight.
Creaking branches and snapping twigs,
Fear fraught the disturbed air.

Oh, how the mists froths
And shimmers sneakily silent.
Hiding. playing. watching. praying.
They are moving.

The quarry found!
Her eyes tear stained,
like Cassandra's distant cries.
Vainly heard.
Tonight she'll die.
Her prophecy complete, unresounding
through madness.
A brother to the right, a sister
on the left and

The jaws snap,
Vicious teeth shine silver
Thirsting through the pale moon night.
Quiver.
Blood rush, a grey and silver flash.
Jaws closed shut,
Through the sinews, so sweet.
The life vein that now bleeds,
paints the white forest floor,
A pretty red carpet.

A mad howl erupts and
shrills through the night.
Every creature eyes the dark.
Beware,
The march is on.