The lone wolf's deadly flower

In the cover of night, beyond the withering trees lies the territory of a lone wolf haunted by memories of a shadowed, bloody past. He lingers and stalks through matted bushes along a familiar trail. Forever hunting the fragile flower wilted from his touch.


Forever alone. That is his rule. That is his way of life. A beast savage for the pack that cannot keep him. A man too wild for the world that cannot contain him. He is the shadow that hides within the night. He is the fear that concurs the soul. But, only for so long can he continue his solitary life. For the night will come when his howl towards the bloody moon no longer sings of power but of fear. Fear for lost time, and lost love.


She walks alone along a path so familiar and yet so new singing of the moon and it’s raining light which showers her in pearls. She watches the fairies dance to her tune as they glance back at her with tear filled eyes. For her voice tremors as she hears the call of the lone wolf. Her love forever alone, calling for a flower wilted from his touch. And yet she fears not the savage beast, but the man whose eyes hold a wild fire not yet tamed.


He stalks her from afar, awaiting his chance to strike. Not to harm but to capture for his own delight. In mid crouch he hears her song and hears of her love for the wolf who knows no happiness. A man who knows no love. He halts at the tremor in her once strong voice and howls to the moon as a single tear escapes her violet eyes. To this he howls to her and to the moon which sees all and forgets none.


“ call to me as you call to your dear moon,


Call for me as I call for you.


I wish to see your amber eyes,


I wish to see past your disguise.


I wilt at your touch my darling wolf


I wilt at your touch though I want more


Call my name and I shall come


Call my name to you I run “


Her song haunts his mind as if bound to him by spell. Soon he will have no choice. He waits for the blood moon and awaits her song soon to call for him. He will whisper her name along the wind to be carried to her bed. All is left to be decided by that which lie ahead.


Dante calls her name, a whisper along the wind. To be carried to her a graceful dream among nightmares.


“ Rosaline “ …..





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