The Lone Wolf runs alone,
She runs to meet her friends.
The not quite human ones,
Who drink the blood yet leave the flesh.
She runs through the ice,
And the cold and the dark and the rage.
Through the never ending loneliness,
And the darkness in her soul.
Her friends are everywhere,
She meets with them often.
As she lopes along,
Ignoring the warnings from the wise ones.
Who know of the danger she faces.
She remembers little about them.
Only faint whispers in her minds,
And dainty tooth marks and matted fur.
By day they appear like the men folk.
But she knows when the sun sets,
Her friends become monsters.
Suave to savage.
Yet still she meets them,
Longing for companionship.
From those with no hearts.
Her friends are intoxicating.
The faint metallic taste of warm warm blood,
That throbs through her veins and pounding heart.
They murmur her name,
Which softly echoes through the air.
The name that reverberates across the ocean,
That resounds through the mountain peaks,
And resonates across the globe.
Drawing her in,
Until the monster within strikes,
By then it is too late.
By Octaboona Ambrosius - an extremly talented young poet from the blog of Derek Landy