The Wolf

The Lacrymosa of Remus

It was on that winter that he died, on that winter of the snake. The wolf finally casted him into the silence that he himself could never create. A life of silence and an end to his first silence. When was it that he ceased to utter another diatribe, another soliloquy, another word? It was that voiceless throat that gutturally and raspingly released a final breath from its gaping rip. It was that wordless tongue that in the end curled back into the cavern beyond the back of the mouth.

Grotesque and malformed was the countenance of that olden mishap when the unending night descended upon him. Ashen was the face in the drab glow of a solitary ray of the serpent moon, lips stretched full up and out, each in a twist counter to the other. Still now are the former silver double tipped tongue, slivered as it had into the recesses of its last refuge. A bite for all the bites inflicted. A slash for all the lashes unfurled and hurled. Sulfuric was the smell of the breeze as it invaded the flaming nostrils. The hungry smoldering eyes unequaled by the amber evil moon. The sweetish smell of sweat wet fur gratingly plagued the evening air. The dreadful breath of death is all around in a stall.