The Hands of the Hour

Her eyes widen with an unfamiliar want
And so completed, her fur shifts in the breeze;
Shooting for the door, the exit from her external prison,
She mutilates the barrier with ease.

The winds of the night send her eyes in confusion,
She can hardly remember who she once was...
Now only the stray stench matters,
Her breath heaves in awaiting blood lust.

Spectres in the surrounding grey fog
urge her with talons so dark...
They encourage her in her yearly deed:
"Let the Wolf make her mark!"

Whispers forming strangulation
so tempting in their death sentence.
Her head darts right and left,
trying to listen, begging repentance.

Her heart begs her otherwise
her eyes shrieking protest;
Her body still moves ruthlessly
while her hands refuse any rest.

"The job must be done!
Go! Do it now!
We aren't that picky -
We don't care how!"

The shadows all mock her
As she treds forever on:
Trying to both refrain and fulfill
her sentence before the dawn.