Where Wolves Leer

For the authentic, artist-poet-who, cares,
Prophetic, those sounds of howling wolves,
Are never far from the n-earing.
It’s the gnashing of practiced teeth
That bristles my silvery hair
When the saliva sweetly drips
And my endearing dreamy aroma
Entreats the beast’s leer…
That’s when the tendrils, inside
My brain, outsource daimon’s mien.

Nick Santoro,  12.20.17

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