Dutch

🌌Dutch🌌

In the shadowed depths where the moonlight dies,
A black wolf prowls with crimson eyes.
His fur, a shroud of midnight hue,
Conceals a heart both wild and true.

One eye gleams with a burning fire,
A soul alight with dark desire.
But where the other once did see,
Now lies a scar, his history.

Horned crown upon his head,
A beast from legends, long since dead.
Yet in his gaze, a story told,
Of battles fought, of nights grown cold.

He roams the land, a phantom's breath,
Between the worlds of life and death.
The lost eye holds a void so deep,
Secrets there, forever sleep.

But in his howl, the wind does wail,
A mournful cry, a haunting tale.
Of what was lost and what remains,
The black wolf walks through endless plains.

A guardian of the night's abyss,
A creature both of pain and bliss.
With horns that mark his ancient sin,
He wanders on, without, within.