Upon the moon the dew does form
I run till I can no more
My instincts, smelling, listen, quiet
I hunt the prey as many before
I plan my attack and move
My senses, guiding, driving, salivate
The dear doth run and stop to eat
I pounce and sink my sharp teeth
My hunger, heightened, kill, devour.
My life is still and peace does descend
I transform back to a tortured shell
My life, changed, curse, bound.
© Copyright 2016 Ian Dawn. All rights reserved.
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