Wolves

In cloaks of ashy fur
and studded in limestone teeth
my wolves stride through
the evergreen forest of my mind
trees of queasy green burst into
the realm of self-pity and doubt.

The moon is dressed in branches
filled in with pine needles sharp as
the knifes imagined hunters attack
my sacred dogs with.
They howl at the moon, as the knifes
strike forward at their furry throats

The hunters are black magic yielders
wrecking hell through the shattering
forest, as the tress and bushes grow
stronger in awful plans

The demons melted out of their trees
and joined the hunters in the fight
for the wolves regal purple lives
but they kept running

The moon stopped smiling
its pristine eyes closed
waiting for bleak end
without a new beginning.