So there. Of course, nobody publishes werewolf poetry, unless it goes beyond "ooh, scary!" or "ooh, tragic." Bleah. Yes, I know about the werewolf magazine :)
Flesh and bone rewoven,
muscle torn from muscle,
stretched and broken, spun again,
until on four legs it crouches,
son of Adam, and the night.
her final cry unanswered--
midnight hunger laid to rest--
and the final, carnal rasping
of its flecked and sanguine breath.
Death, breath, death, breath. I swore to my father when I was five that I would never rhyme those, or use hamster style. It's a slant rhyme, dammit. Damn, I've been working on not even two stanzas for, like, two hours now, and every line makes me feel like I'm a year younger, in the "this sounds like I wrote when I was fifteen" sense of the word. I think I've gotten this out of my system, though. I quit, lest they revoke my degree for reasons of terminal sucking. I just loved that last line and built upward, but..oh well...there's probably a good reason why nobody buys werewolf poetry...