Wednesday, December 17, 2008


When the moon rises,
Full and bright as the sun shines.
The children recede into arms
Of those who know.


The pale-dead light
Casks a glow of fear, hatred,
Terror. The streets grow quiet-


The beast unleashes
With clothing ripped, tattered,
blown apart. The eyes peer
Victims no more.

The rows of hair flow smooth
like silk. Butter. Grain.
Gasping their first breath of air
in what seems a decade.
Standing on end, declaring their might-

The hair.
The hair.
The hair.

It flows like rows of corn,
undulating in the wind
Bending and dipping in the light.
For these are strands that
lay uncov'rd,
gasping for the air
to deliver terror.

The thick, musky scent
o'erflows from
the base of the fur.
Houses weep,
the light dims.
The scent is ever onward.

Sweat and salt

The Beast

The Fur.

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