A subsonic growl emerges
As the red wolf plunges forth
From his concrete cave.
He shoulders aside the weaker creatures,
In his rush, for the men inside
Live for the hunt.
The siren howl is high at first,
Wild and eager, hysterical.
As he gains his stride
On the pavement path,
His whine swings into a rocking pulse,
Keeping time with the fire,
Or the blood spurting from a man.
Behind the pack there is a white dog,
Sturdy and square, trained and sure,
With a lyrical howl.
He keeps pace yet there is no lust
For the hunt, no need for blood.
They circle the waiting disaster,
Disgorging men in black and white,
The hulks rumble as they wait.
Wolves lick up the flames
While the white-dressed men
Lap up the blood.
The wolf prowls as the flames die
But stands guard as the
White dog points to the man.
He has chosen to save.

Constant competition with your mind and body.
Giving a lick only to receive it 10x harder.
The sirens of you wale.
The louder they become the more unaware you become to the feeling.
It's not a fight anymore ... Just a beat down.

i rest my head gently
against wooden beams,
cigarette smoke clouds
pillow case dreams

on a star spangled night
dangling feet off a ledge,
the moon bends light
along a noose i've pledged

the devil calls my name
the weight pulls me down
the angels aren't to blame
ignore their siren sound

i kneel beside my bed
and shake my fists above
this reckless life i've led
sings blue cobalt love

Fitful rest in the place of slumber
A jolted start
Lulled by darkness
It was too early
It was too late
The night was dark
Then, I heard it in the distance:
An unidentified voice

Sweet, silver song sung
Solitude in solemn shadow
I could not identify the singer
Neither male nor female

Peculiar voice in a peculiar morning
An hour past midnight
I did hear the song
And then something caught my fear
I hath been taken by the ear

Were they a Siren of a tarred river
Flowing through a small town
Tempting me to the street
And turn me into a meal sweet
Or perhaps a Banshee
Irish crying, sobbing,
Mistaken for a singer
When they are a harbinger

Distant, faint,
And indescribable
Words and babble
But a song nonetheless
But a lullaby nonetheless

Young pretty bodies in the night
Nobody can hear their bodies drop
You see it's only night  when the birds
Go to cry  so you can feel the wind behind in each flap of wings
As pretty bodies lie in the night as the moonshines little truth
Beaks  open wide to the sky and screech
no sound is heard that's taken
Young pretty bodies don't move but they do preform until it's to late
Claws scratch flesh  in shadows as last breathes are passed in the middle of the night