Wolf in the flow

I wrote me a one poemetry. The oldest art, and often-times the most lively (or even... the most... DEADLY).

So, my friend. I wrote you this hopeless Werewolf enchantment. But please… my old friend. Pretty PLEASE. My dearest of friends. Just don’t go out and whisper it out loud… At least not wwhen you’re missing out there… all alone. So that only the shadows can hear. Yes, at least not when you're falling down under a red-blooded moon in the night.

Wolf in the flow

Wolf in the fold,
flows from the old.
Owl out of love,
hawk and a dove,
batterfly wings,
and one ring of all storms,
dogging it out,
digging it in,
in the skin of a man
flowing through how too soon
not every hand,
with each of its thought,
word and deed,
collected from ill
or the thought of a kind.

Wolf, in the fold
of a meat-space flesh-costu-mary
skin,
doubled-up hands,
leather belt, (jumping hoops)
many a' things,
reatttttatched
from this sheet
of a once-living thing
made of old.