Oblivious Short Stories

In the hour of the wolf, just before the dawn, when faeries doze and daze,
dance in haze,

I’ll catch your breath and squeeze to death, to birth, of young or aged,
of pleased or raged

I hear the feral Hunt with Gabriel´s Hounds
a summoning of peril pounds.

So where are you, to stop the blares,
of horns, of wolfs, in hidden lairs.

By the hour of the wolf I cry,
 a vivid call in a dour sigh.

Will lovers raise a bird songs phrase
to peel the moon in every phase?

Or will each word or twiddle wit or lie;
be a riddle, gently stirred and split with wry.

At the hour of the wolf I rest my mind
in a nest of thoughts that is left behind.
In the hour of the wolf the myth is entwined
to a cord of writhe to a hallowed bind.

On the edge of the grip of nothingness,
most people sleep not the less;

While others toss and turn,
awake in longing or in yearn.

By the hour of the wolf the urge will fade
As a crackle in our soul of what we made`