the dream had layers of wolves upon layers of she-wolves, eyes in every direction, ears that scrutinized everything to the limit of the unfathomable, each heartbeat a syllable of cold death, each small animal devoured or ****** on wooden floors with sand spilled to cover the nocturnal blood. the blood of poisoned wine running down the snouts into the throats, trembling. I do not believe in the overwhelming noise of the dead.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 11:33 AM UTC
the dream had layers of wolves upon layers of she-wolves, eyes in every direction, ears that scrutinized everything to the limit of the unfathomable, each heartbeat a syllable of cold death, each small animal devoured or ****** on wooden floors with sand spilled to cover the nocturnal blood. the blood of poisoned wine running down the snouts into the throats, trembling. I do not believe in the overwhelming noise of the dead.
Request permission to use this poem