Call Of The Werewolf

By Ron Wilson Arbuthnot

Beneath the cobble stones as Paris sleeps
the dead awaken rising from the dust,
into a world where no one ever keeps
the track of time, and rise again they must.

extracted from the ashes of the dead,
they search for innocents they might find near,
they’d sing a song, but howl the howl instead,
forgetting time and what has brought them here.

the innocents they find complete their quest,
those children of the night who lose their way,
forgotten from all time, they take their rest
too deep in night, too far from light of day.

Not fearing death, they lose their way to night,
and near the Seine, the werewolf sees it all,
from darkest dark, and far from any light
another innocent has heard the call.

This Poem Features In: