Fenrir Poem by Rev The Poet

Only silence I hear,
occasionally shattered by the scrawling of a wand of ink,
cold, hard chairs lie dead in rows
few occupied by scattered slightly more alive subjects
giving all they have got to stay alive

we seem to be stuck in a concrete box
where the eye of the animator can not reach
where the eye of colour can'not cast its light
frozen are we, empty are we,
unconsciously basking in the shadow of a wolf