Hounds

The howls are recklessly closing in,
Once barely a sound, a hint of nothing,
Now viciously, their icy breath chills my bones.

Such a naive thought of being immortal,
No matter what decoys or diversions we pretend to spring,
Those bastard hounds always find the trail.

Such blood thirsty, cold blooded killers,
Driven through the abyss of forever,
feeding on every pitifully helpless soul that falls into their path.

We run aimlessly, hide carelessly,
But these cunning predators never stop,
Such a simple vapor on which they follow and selfishly dine.

The howls, near deafening,
Once a mortally tipped scale now becomes eternally balanced,
Does it matter now which ladder rung you futilely stand on?

A single common thread we all fatefully share,
In the end, we are all reduced to nothingness,
By the wolves just outside our door.