Alone I stand…not entirely myself, I suffer a cold grip not given by my hand.
By a tear of agony that drops below the eye, a moonlit transformation
concealed within a noble pride.
A bloodline mortal, though ravenous behavior be gave,
a hunger saturating, human flesh I crave.
Some of past would say that a curse has become my sire,
to speak of truth is to know that Hell is NOT shrouded in fire.
A metamorphosis complete, a howl for my humanity’s retreat.
A beast of mystic rhyme of old, how true those fables had reflected,
to myself they once were told.
Saddened by this unholy path I create, an uncontrollable lust for
blood just will not dissipate.
Trapped by powers that I had wished to purge,
thoughts no longer humane, a dire need to quench an immoral thirst of flames. What is to be gained by those who’ve been slain,
a reluctant howl found below an innocent shame.
Who is thy god that would let such tragedy occur?,
who should I kneel before when the change obscures?
Never can I blame a curse that leaves me within a dream,
as I dwell into the darkness that can not hear my screams.
So be it in the epitaph read: He who cried wolf shall laugh beyond the grave, when all is done and said.
this poem is about the curse of lycanthropy (werewolf) and the change that occurs and the conflict of emotions that reside, enjoy.