Wolves At the Gates
Tightly closed and bolted locks held
the pack back from holding where it stood,
baying, howling at the moon like wormwood;
a curdling cry screeching at its fullness
casting lit shadowy haunts
orange red blood glow that taunts;
an immense and eerie specter of the night scape
drew the pack that gathered at the gate
a far distant position of confrontational stalemate;
lost to the wilderness that once was
relegated in progress and time
with freedom of the moon left to find.
For Wolves and the Moon contest 8/13/18
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
