Wolves.

Another night of howling, coming from under the floorboards.
Smelling of earth, woods and leaves; their paws dig.
Claws at my head and at the breaks in the wall, open gaps
letting in the night of a February eve.

Their tails brush the plumes away from my dusty house,
leaving hairs from the forest in the air.

A footstep near my path and they would run away
but once it was just me, again, they’d come back.
Tumbling and knocking into my walls, sending a call
that comes into my room, right to my ears.

Their song sounds, cold breath erupting in the air, their eyes
hold me, as they pass my open door. Their orbs
of amber and hazel, and a pattern on their face
feathering out like smudged dirty sand.

The windows are open, they come and go as they please.
Playing games behind the corners and passageways,
their claws tap just as my nails do, how many are down there now?
None; and yet so many.

During the day they sleep in the basement, or go back to the trees.
And I’ll lay, dreading and hoping, that for another night, they’ll sing.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s