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WolvesRob Diaz-Marino 1997-1998
Of fang and claw, the wolves emerge
their restlessness they now do purge
to voice the moon their ghostly dirge
and search for evening prey.
The deer, she sport the blackened shape,
its teeth are large, its mouth agape.
She turns to run, but can't escape,
and there she makes her grave.
Together they run, amongst the dark,
on the trees, they leave their mark,
their eyes alight with blood-red spark,
God's demons of the night.
|© 2000 Rob Diaz-Marino. All rights reserved.|