By B.K.
Date: 2008 Nov 04
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The Hour of The Wolf

The pitch of darkness
Is its own screen of night
As it winds itself sideways
With a scream of its might
Half the earth sleeps
As past midnight prevails
While misery creeps
And jealousy
Tears its heart
On a nail

Lovers rejoice
In passions

Writers hold
Their pens

Them what to do

As sleep-walking poets
Ponder loves truths

The music of life plays on
While the hour of the wolf
Fires Russian roulette at the dawn