The Werewolf's Cry

The nameless echoes poured themselves into the years, never carelessly broken into disjointed pieces, fragments scattered like seeds in the wind or impaired by rushing waves of oblique memory.
No eloquent pause of those inveterately grievous whispers arrived: they stretched throughout the mind, each sin sewn into the fabric of every thought,daring flexibility and punishing that vagrant act of will.
It made the heart fiery and thick, coating it in blind chivalry, rattling off the dates of those murdered unknowns as they rose into the bellies of the worms with each passing step.
They expressed little and warned only of what was to come.
What they could not foresee was the endless tempest of a hunters' conscience; the last remaining mark of tenderness worn within.