Were-Wolf Poem by Laura Way
Were-Wolf
Howling at the full moon.
The agony of transforming, human to wolf.
Gravel under his paws, as he runs through the forest.
The scent of blood from his recent kill.
The wind blowing his ruff in the bitter breeze.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Topic(s) of this poem: wind
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8/28/2026 5:35:39 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
