On the thigh of a moulding oak
In the throat of an urban forest
Christened “The Queens Palm” by visionaries years ago
With grand ideas of distributing the wealth
Of a 2 for £7.50 ciders amongst the poor
Is the setting of our tale tonight

With the dust of the bricks
Still creeping under her fingernails
A young woman clutches to the walls
All in the hopes of gaining some balance
As she’s forced out of the bar
Using the witchcraft known as atmosphere
The glamour which takes the form
Of the shitty stares from the pensioners
The Necromancer who warps into the shape
Of a long lost lover who’s cut off all ties; in just an evenings time

She winces and staggers ontop the tarmac
After giving the moon the most agonizing cry
She takes his 6 month anniversary gift
Snaps it from her neck and throws into the gutter
Followed very shortly but her lunch
She slumps into the monochrome fields
Leaving the tatty car park behind her
Wiping the disguise leaking down her cheeks
Injects a does of oxygen up her nostrils
And turns back to address the night sky

With the force of a culprit
Of a bruised chest and broken rib cage
His footsteps scar the very earth beneath him
His snarling shaking the excess from the trees
His teeth unable to damn the overflow
Of heightened expectations
As his next meal enters his yellow stained vision
His claws sink into the bark with excitement
Melting into the perspective of the trees
Hovering through the grassy fields
He’s been stalking this one for a while now
He knows once she’s gone, no one’s gonna miss her
As he creeps closer and ever closer
To the young woman pleading with the heavens
So close now, that her sobbing shakes his mane
So close, his breathing comes to the screeching halt
So close, he knows exactly how she’s going to taste
So close, he can’t stop thinking about it

The Wolfman strikes!

The saddest part was this all could’ve been avoided
While she was dragging her way to the back fields
She wasn’t alone, she passed by a few prying eyes
There was the old couple on their way home
That took one look at her booty shorts, and low cut top
And sneered her away from the main paths
There was the group of hooligan young boys
That decided to showcase their mothers lack of affection
By steering her off the alleyways with the team calling
There was the local student brigade
Hanging out in the car park, stiff as stone
As if her sight was based on movement
So next time you see a fellow human in need
A “Are you okay?” or a “How you doing?” couldn’t be amiss

Because you may just be talking to the Wolfman’s next victim

– Lnc0