Baying of Wolves

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The silver moon slithers through the crevices of black clouds,

welcoming the alluring song of midnight's shroud.

When the wolves sing and the ravens cry,

the angels weep for their fallen sunrise.

When the beasts prowl and the stars don't shine,

a chorus of evil so darkly divine.

Death marches in the air,

sauntering the shadows of gloom.

Feeding on spines tinged with despair,

the winds defiled by sour corpse-fumes.

An odious harmony of shrieks and howls,

uttered from the mouths of children so foul.

The bell towers chime in resonance with the symphony's growl,

the wolves sing a song for the moon.

Prey to the prowlers shall be disemboweled,

beneath the silver harbinger of doom.

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