Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Midnight makes no sound when it arrives.

Silently deadly you sneak into my bones,
sweetly deadly you nest inside.
With no time to escape
and too scared to play dead.

Night craves for no light
and my only shelter is my own flesh
but oh wait,
you are already inside.

Silently deadly like a virus,
sweetly deadly like love.

Every day at dusk, I hide.
But oh wolf,
you have to find me only once.

Loudly blatantly you munch my bones,
delightfully blatantly you nest inside.


[Another recurrence of the Devotion Rot habit—spilled as art.]
A love that spreads like an infection through your body - never asking for permission, just taking what it owns. A love that feels too good to be right. A passion too big to describe. A dark love we would love to feel, and yet we dread. What a lovely way to love.
What is soft, is innocence stolen,
down by the park,
a beast has now woken.

Dreams shatter like twigs
****** intentions,
Anxiety replaces
A child's confidence.

A hungry wolf
A candle wish,
now ever blown out,
Torment has spoken.
A metaphor piece about child ****** abuse of a stranger danger and how it causes PTSD and mental issues for the victim and often for decades of trying to heal.  The inspiration for this piece was Rotten Apple by Alice In Chains.
alex Jun 8
Why? you ask,
Why do you hide?
For protection-
because it’s safer,
than being seen.

If all I must do is lie,
wear a snarling mask,
bare sharp teeth
so they don’t hurt me,
I will.

I’ve learned to walk
like I belong with the pack,
echo their growls,
So they
keep their distance.

I pretend to be the ones I’ve feared,
I hunt and harm,
not because I want to,
but to hide
among the wolves of the world.

But still-
to lie for protection
does not make me good,
So, really,
I am no better than a wolf
in sheep’s clothing.
Cadmus Jun 2
🐺

The more I understand man
and what he’s capable of…

the more I am convinced
the wolf was framed

and Little Red
wrote the story.

🧣🧣
Interpretations are often shaped by those who survive to tell the tale. Sometimes, the villain is just the one without a voice.
Sam S May 9
I clawed my way from winter’s mouth…
the wolf that fed on memory and rot.
Its hunger had no end,
and I was the feast.

But I tore loose.
With bloodied breath and crooked spine,
I rose.

In the forest of endings,
a bear’s voice called…
half lament,
half command.
It knew my name
when I had none.

The stars spun in reverse.
The cycle cracked
like glass under weight.
And in the hush that followed,
a flame stirred.

It spoke:

“Come, child.
You are the death
of forgetting.”

And somewhere,
deep in the trees,
another wolf stirred…
not the devourer,
but not yet known.
Its eyes burned with something ancient,
its breath was the wind.

It waits.

And when it steps forward…
which wolf will it be
Damocles Apr 24
As daylight dies the night falls—
Like a widow’s veil
And dark lacquered walls turn lilac,
By the pale of moonlight,
I wail in howling thrusts
Lycanthropic ******* sounds
As fangs pang a hunger
Vibrating in concerto,
Down to the core erupting like Vesuvius
I lament with lavish tongue licking lips.

A lich, courage upon the rift
As the stars, they shift
Patterns to illustrate the cosmic maw
In awe, enthralled, nocturnal
Heading the barn owl’s call
I am but a man undone
Remade chimera,
He’ll hound and bound to burn
But here I yearn among the tenebrous limbs of deadened trees
In a forest that whispers my dreams

I lament, in hopes the sun will shine
And char my unfeeling flesh
I digress, as the meat will keep
In the cold I breathe
A toast to thee! In ichor filled glass
Silken sanguine liquid kissing my throat
Coating organs to feign alive.

I, one of the children of the night,
Shall sing you lullabies
With the sweet music that I make!

As the Mordant liquor of tears
Inspire spirits—
I’ll drink in rousing cheers
For an eternity that better eluded me
Until I found the western shore,

I am the storm,
Godspeed on the devil’s thunder,
I come as primal, a beast reborn.
Been a while since I wrote a darker, horror/fantasy piece.
Rey Apr 15
Wagging your tail around you saw something pretty and wanted it. It had feathers that let the sun shine off them reflecting into your eyes.

You chased it wanting the pretty thing

You caught it pouncing the ground in pleasure

Your jaws tighten on it to secure your new catch

But it wasn't yours

And it never was to begin with

You never meant to hurt it

But you did.

You set it down gently, the pleased feeling stopped short with disgust in yourself

Now it's gone, never to fly around and have the light glimmer off it, never to flap about with it's flock again.

Gone forever because you wanted that pretty thing and were so foolish you let it disappear forever never to be free again

Only thing left of it is the blood of guilt on your jaws left to sink in as your jaws did to the pretty thing.
Narin Mar 31
The Wolf, it hungered, while you stayed warm,
Bound to its pack, shaped by the storm,
Through frost and through famine,
The Wolf, it did suffer, while The Dog lay secure.

But when disaster did strike, stealing Dog's home,
She was left to the frost, forsaken, alone,
She wandered as prey, and trembled in fear,
Until one day, she saw naught but a pack,
Warm, safe numbers, a home-- one she lacked,
And so she found herself The Wolf,
Mercy, she asked, May I join your pack?

The Wolf, it snarled, when she begged for stay,
Herald The Dog who yearns for warmth!
When she had comfort when we had naught!
The Dog bowed her head, but she could not,
Explain to The Wolf what it owed her not.

The Dog, she wandered, searching for fire,
But the world was not warm as her home had once been.
So she carved her own pack,
Starved through the winter,
Charged into battle, unraveled by the years,
And so came to be, The Dog was assured,
That in her place, The Wolf endured.
Written 31/03/25
What is a Dog if not a fledgling Wolf? She'll have to grow wings and fly if she wants to survive. The Wolf knows this well; For it too was once a lone Dog.
Sam S Mar 22
They whispered that he was alone because he had to be,
that some creatures are too wild to stay,
too restless to belong.

But the wolf remembers…
the warmth of the fire,
the weight of a world that once welcomed him.
And he knows now: it wasn’t his wildness they feared,
but the way he saw through the shadows.

The wolf knows better.
The howl was never a warning,
never a call for chaos—
but a song for the lost,
a promise that no one walks alone.

So he left them in their silence,
turned his voice to the moon,
where the lonely still listen,
where the echoes do not twist—
but repeat the truth,
for those ready to hear it.
Emery Feine Mar 2
Is a sheep no longer innocent
When it has grown up with wolves
When its fleece is no longer white
When it is stained with blood?

Is it justifiable when it kills
If it weeps afterwards
If it kills to eat
If it kills to live

Is the sheep no longer pure
When it is in a wolf’s fur
When blood drips down its teeth
The same blood in its heart

And when that “sheep” is torn apart
And left to die in the wood
Will its pack remember it as one of them
Will it be remembered as a wolf?
“In all our lives, there is a fall from innocence. A time after which, we are never the same.” -Patrick Rothfuss
Next page