With The Smell of Burning Flesh on Their Breath

The wolves rule all the enchanted forests past midnight.

It is on the witching hour when they come out,

with the smell of burning flesh on their breath

and they ride.

They ride, they ride, across oceans they ride,

and lovely they ride

taking master of the wind and the shadows

and all things carefully kept out of sight.

The king and queen stand hand in hand

enwrapped in gray fur

overlooking their dearly dew-speckled kingdom.

Their eyes meet intently like stars

craving ever so fully for the wild and morbid death in each other's souls.

And they run, they run

across oceans they run

with the smell of burning flesh on their breath.

They can run forever.