A Wolf Decomposing

 

 

 

 

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Type O Negative “Wolf Moon”

 

 

 

 

She became the covenant sacrifice
For crimes of passion fashioned from the fabric of elaborate lies
No choice remained aside from payment of the very ultimate of prices
And, as the ritual dagger bled the pallid wool of slaughtered lamb
The cry of wolf fell silently, divorced from pelt through violent means
Deprived of time for final pleas
Her downfall most decisive

 

Death was most becoming for the leader of a wolf pack running blindly towards wakeless fates awaiting all who make the same mistakes as she
Mistakenly the stars opaque had led her to less charmed domain
Hard the rain that cracked a face encased in tasteless porcelain
Sharp the pain that coursed each vein, embraced entire coordinates
No choice remained aside from punishment proportionate to crime
More tortuous than any thoughts pulled taut across the smallest cortex of a tiny mind
Deprived of time for final pleas
Her downfall most decisive

 

Incisors ripped from cavities for absent use of alchemy
Her rancid flesh a pageantry of grossest abnormality
Her smile of vile concavity
Untied from skull-cap callously
Her heresy a fallacy, inherent in its blasphemy
Each fractured bone snapped casually
Disowned of stowed anatomy
Demoted immortality
Resigned to cornered dynasty
Deprived of time for final pleas
Her downfall most decisive

 

Oh, what big eyes you have
For such a big bad wolf
Make delightful entrée while the chef filets main course
Of course, a dash of seasoning would sweeten up the dish
Alas, things seem amiss with cranberry sauce
Half a dozen quarts or so should fill up a decanter
Unfortunately, the kitchen’s also out of coriander
The kiln is firing, striking while the iron’s hot and spotting squatting milksop in decline of lot retired, perspiring like a salamander
Deprived of time for final pleas
Her downfall most decisive

 

Is she past or present tense?
Is harshest truth self-evident?
And what is that unpleasant stench?
It reeks of creeping death and final breaths far less than heaven-sent
Some way too late to make amends
With nothing left to recompense
Each laboured movement second guessed
No room left for improvement
Soon to be consigned within the shrine of her immutable entombment
Deprived of time for final pleas
Her downfall most decisive

 

 

 

 

Richard Charles Stevens

 

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

 

 

 

 

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