Death Does Not Live Here

Gray wolves are nipping at my heels.
My mind rolling through a valley of dark hills…

The fields’ a ‘shamble lost to their frills.
Ghosts are haunting, and screaming loud shrills…

Every road I approach has a fork, of which one I pray to fulfill
an end to this dizzying driving rain, and bone-freezing chill…

Frantically racing toward a sunrise, staying clear the foothills,
where the wolves live and thrive, and buzzards sharpen their skill…

Adrenalin flowing freely and tingling the bottom of my feet,
as her shadow covers me with an icy sheet…

I’m free of movement and soon fall prey,
sleep creeps past me as I slip to dismay…

As my eyes strain not to close
No strength to oppose…

Slipping the fray
I Drift away…

Drifting,
drifting
away.