Smoke filled the dimly lit room. A pack of wolves hovered around, Flaky red eyes, glaring through the smoke, “Jeremy is dead!” The hounds had no claws, They did not bite, Holding needle they made a grimly sight “Jeremy is dead!” Blood oozed from injected scars, Annihilated stink spread far, They licked the wounds to …
Category: Prose
Somewhere … Sometime
Between the times of light and dark, There is a music to hear. It is neither the Morning Thrush, Nor the Nightjar, Just a melodious hum to the ears.
Life in a Shoebox
My Life My Pace!
