"A Wolf Running In The Mist"

Upon this wilting wisp of woods the night had crawled so weary,
The snow glazing from the light of moon, gashing shadows oh so dreary
A dark, lingering debonairre,
A frightening plight, born of demeaning despairs
Just snubbed illusions a wandering wolf could hardly care,
In this valley of iniquity.

Faring midnight frost and bitter hearts; facing claw, fang, and creature,
Ventures far in beastly lands, bore him scars-his only friends and teachers
His will turned preacher, his sight to the stars, his heart had sought for Zion,
His travels bring some thoughts in mind on how far he's gone since Babylon
Hark-shun thy thoughts of Babylon for they make his mind all but still,
Lest his hide remembers the wretched cold that numbs the winter's chill.

The wind whispers wily whimpers; should steady a creature go on forth?,
Frozen whiskers, scars stabbed by winter; does nature approve this course?
Colder protrusions rag the pain,
Stinging each crisp intrusion of paws on the season's snowy pane
Stinging each purple scar perfusion but he really can't complain,
To his scars that had bled for freedom.

Freedom-the sweet, scrumptious fragrance gracing the woods' dark wintry spell,
Swirling heavenly lights and pines into a silhouette carousel
Crescent crying, rising, then fading-as if it were never there,
His senses protruded by the mystery-that is the misty air
While he keeps roving, pondering what could have caused such crescent crying?
His suspicion then arousing, minding some evil in the trees, spying.

Some bird or beast watching, leering it's stoic vision from barren branches bleak,
Not an utter does it speak, not a flutter does it's feathers reek
Ebony bird of dread, who's eyes glow red with the sins of Babylon,
Vicious beast of yore that fed on the bloody corpse that is Babylon
But it's quarry persistant, so with a single flap it takes to the skies,
Into the darkness poignant, but somewhere it glares with it's evil eyes.

A shooting star streaking the night sharp with it's fiery trailing,
Blazing the way to Zion and to a mate-who is still waiting
So hence forth he trudges, through the wintry passages of his life's tome,
And perhaps in it's pages, he will find what a traveller would call, home
The mist slowly diminish his form as he howls to the woods, "Adieu!",
So farewell to thee, wandering wolf, and may God be with you too.

Crescent crying, rising, then fading-as if it were never there,
Might seem a restless spirit roaming, be of cause to these spectral blares,
Or could be a man in need of mead,
Who can no longer dream for his sleep is haunted by his evil deeds
And in his weeping, he is lost in fears that he might just concede,
To the dark figure that watches him.

Some farce fowl or demon that can chill an icy heart in it's winter,
Yet as if born from fire, with feathers of soot and eyes of cinder
And in it's silence spoken it speaks words that send his body shrills,
For it's eyes reflect the bloody ghosts of his past-they haunt him still
But on this night, he swore he heard the fading calls of freedom howling,
But there is no freedom, under that glaring evil that is scowling.

And so the night sings it's ghostly ballad of hidden tales untold,
Written down in the snow of times past that only the trees will know
Lingers the man who's hopes were robbed,
Victim of that cursed demon who's eyes do mob,
Living out his ending days and so he breaks down and sobs
In this valley of iniquity.