The Vortex

This
This is
This is the vortex

Wolves hunger in the darkness
creeping sallow-eyed
through blackened shoots of grass
around our faded firelight.

Our house of storm wet soil
a thousand upturned graves
crumbles
under the weight of night.

We breath the flakes of bones
generations heavy
breached white and brittle,
bitter on the tongue.

And all around, the wolves snarl
gnawing on the darkness
blown glass eyes glow cold
in our dimming light.