Red, Like Wolves

At this hour everything looks like wolves. The mere sound of your breath is the distinct and unmatched image of a black pack of mean dogs with a jagged glare. I cannot remove myself from their presence, they are in my own air. They are livid and numb and vacant and furious– all of these things, simultaneously. They luxuriate on my taste buds as if my tongue were a bed for the most cancerous lot of raven flavored iniquity. Raven flavored iniquity is an animal all its own, but it comes in the form of the wolf pack. I watch them chew their thoughts to pieces, and their thoughts look quite similar to my bones. Their teeth look quite like my own bones too… Is it that my bones are gnawing themselves to slivery bits, and when the wolf pack spits in a chorus of skeletal rubble, is the spirit inherent in my own bone marrow being sung  into the world from whence these torrid beasts have come? I am a tornado, it is emerald and live wire. I am watching my brain become untamed by the neurology of a wild arousal in its epicenter. That is, I am becoming the very bite hungry being I cannot stop. Fear is the world of this hour of wolves, and everything looks red like wolves at this hour. At this hour I am a yard of violent bodies with a thousand dead dreamers eaten by the gruesome slither of sorrow from the forked tongues of black canine mouths.