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Sorage55

Text The End of The Werewolf

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A pillar,

Of light,

Is killing,

The night,

 

They tied my hands,

With chains of silver,

So I can't stand,

In the face of this killer,

 

My body's burning,

The pain's churning,

My life is dying,

I might be crying,

 

Muse! Wherefore art thou?

Why didds't thine given them my ill?

To lead them to my kill,

And I smile ever still.

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Poetry is in my family history. On my father's side of my family was a famous Poet from England, he also wrote books (And one of those books I had read from my school's library :P) Thomas Hardy, he seems just like me, writing poems AND stories.

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