A young lad approaches the street corner tattered hat and dusty clothes. The only distinguishable thing about him was a tatto of a wolf upon the right side of his neck. He found an abandoned car near a busy street, sitting on the hood he began an open poem of sorts that bare his emotion for any who'd listen. 

It's a sad thing, truly

when peace is mistaken for weakness.

Two decades of silence,

no betrayal, and still,

the rats scream

like little Betty Sues

hopping onto chairs,

spooked by shadows

they cast themselves.

Where is the iron?

The marrow of grit?

The blood that once held love for kin,

now curdled into paranoia,

desperate sucklings at the teat of false power.

Clinging.

Squirming.

Pretending choices are hard

while selling their souls like alley whores,

discarded, spent,

like rags that know only the stench of use.

But this well has been stirred.

You woke something you do not understand.

The wolf in the hollow

he heard the whisper of injustice.

Four wounds carved deep in his name,

each one a bell toll, a war hymn in the marrow.

Before, chained in his ribs

Now the beacons blaze.

The drums begin.

The piper plays his tune,

and he will dance a waltz of ruin

through alleyways soaked in hymns

of old vengeance.

Flesh will meet fang.

Blood will baptize claw.

And the red will never wash clean.

The blood god waits patiently

and he, his devoted hymn.

Leave no stone untouched,

no whisper unchecked.

Slip,

and you will find him

not before you but above,

emerging from the shadows,

Gaping maw,

a slow, grinning noose

around your napes.

Forevermore

This curse is upon your names,

your blood,

your children’s bones.

So long as the wolf walk these halls,

so long as the wind remembers,

there will be no peace.

Only ash.

Let the ducks boast their tales

in the fog fattened and fearless,

‘bad bitches’ in their own song.

A fight they yearn for.

But the zoo shall bleed,

for prey is all they’ve ever been.

~RIP sacrifices to the blood gods~