The Wolf’s Lair pt 3 – a poem


A warlord of evil dreams incomparable, 

Once led his devil’s campaign from here,

Morality a bygone and twisted fantasy

In his own head only; the bunkers crack,

Pieces wayward random falling, abhorred

By all.


Evil dreams on, despite demise of the death’s head,

This place where wolves roam wildly

Through the dank swamps, the wooded wilderness,

Ready for new residents, others to sweep

The spirit of that dire, lingering evil,

Cleave the old devil soul.


Months pass before true word emerges

From the Wolf’s Lair, borne on the backs

Of the shaggy direwolves, wild roaming

Proof of new forces, dire in name, great in stature

Having brooded long amidst unclean forest verdure;

Apparently aiming in some strange direction.



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