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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
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Night Owl Poetry - Dorinda Duclos 