“Anaesthetic For Werewolves”

the Poem

A camouflage to avoid
The parade of torches
Fast approaching,
A windy wasteland
Where I’ll forsake my hunger
Awaits ahead,
At the end of this dusty town,
At the taste of clove oil
Still in my mouth
As I spill a crimson fluid
From my irises
Under the palest moonlight.

I can already feel the beast
Inside, under my skin
It slides like a blade
Through my rib cage,
My throbbing skull
And my fists kiss the ground.
It’s darker now,
As I sing the fiend to sleep.
The procaine runs out
And the hands freeze
And in my own breaths
I drown

So rip me apart
To save a soul;
Black clouds,
Silver bullets,
A safe shore
Where I fall.
I fall.