Werewolf 1440

Where is the waning moon
off to on a night such as this?
As she cogitates her path I
am swathed in the darkness.

My eyes are red for her pale
face, so full of stark enchantment.
I stalk the shadows of her form.
The insects touch my hands in sympathy.

As if the verge weren’t enough
to tempt me; I now watch her
from the gates of Jealousy
where I am barred away from rationality.

I scribble notes on the walls
that I will see, hear, feel, and remember.
I am a wolf clothed in a distorted pelt.
My claws hide under the scrutiny of day.

Teeth and eyes that can’t be shut out,
and a tendency to lose control.
The fires of covet keep the steam rolling.
I want to be her, I want to be her.

Flesh is nothing more than a guise.
Supple lies covering a beast of control.
And now she turns and sees me.
Even with intent I am rendered inadequate.

I am the wolf, she is the snake,
you are the Hunter, you are the Hunter,
and who will fail to sheen in the moonlight?
What my deepest fears are; I am.