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A drop of blood, from my thumb

The prickle of a thorn

The crimson flows, a steady stream

From where the flesh is torn

In the quiet, far off distance

A wolf bays as if he knows

The still of night has called me

And I watch, as full moon grows

Reaching out to gather

What is left of me, I fear

I throw myself into the pitch

So he won’t find me here

But alas, I’ve lost my freedom

To the one who rules the night

The blood of wolves, my reckoning

Beneath the full moon light

 

Writing Prompt – Still of Night – Day 12/30

©Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
Photo via Pixabay CC0