The Wolves are Running

The stinging wind is swept aside as each beast breaks the borders of the forest glade
Darkness creeping in and the moon lacks the comfort it once held
The blind escape attempt by the hunted

Dark trees reach overhead, a shroud over the mourning fen
He clambers haphazardly through the roots that dare to dislodge his frightened footing
And yet care not to ease his fall
And the silence is broken, torn apart by the pants and rustles in their stale breath

The wolves are running
But a tail's breadth behind him, noses almost at him, eyes are set upon him
The wolves are running, exponentially closer, he hopes this is all a dream and they'll never reach him with their glistening, savage smiles

The howl of victory rumbles through the darkness
And the moon surrenders to this pit of panic
Unable to bear their imminent triumph