The Wolf At Sundown

When the light drifts below,
the horizon of grass and snow,
aimless cries will split the night,
Showered in a waterfall of blue tears,
crystallized and a mystic might,
Are these truly words caught in none's ears?

Skies are not a friend,
When the fiery sun begins to descend,
Boiling a bath of iron black night.
The hourglass grain of cemeteries,
times gnashing on dead man fairies;
The wolf, weeping beast of Moon,
digs a grave it's own so soon,
At the time of grim sundown.

Foggy twilight,
the home of sinister beast knight.
The wolf of immortal tears,
a rainfall from ice-blue an' gray clouds,
Weeping for these endless cemetery years.

Enter not this place,
for the noir-furred wolf,
Will banish you with disgrace.
A curse, a plague,
A bite upon memories vague;
tombstones from which impatient ravens frown,
Upon the wolf, never allowed his mother Moon;
Singing only at the peak of sundown.

***If there was an award for most repetitive poem (of mine), this one would win it, don't you think? I sure as Hell do.
Ugh! Saying the same thing over and over again, though in a different way, but still! I like it though, so no worries***