Selene! Nyx! Pheobe! Such teasing crooks
of the finger as all can see on some distant
shore. There is no garish burn to my sight
in your gentle, glowing lee that pulls and
tugs the lycanthrope from its cage, a beastial
acolyte to your beautiful, terrible power.
The swelled waters are your portal
to mortal hearts; many a beauty has
stared and wasted at fathoming the
fathoms aglow. Menses and speywives
find a rich connection in your lunar
calendar, an unrealised jail with
Howling, howling at the peak
of the cycle! Men and Women
and Children become further
removed…or perhaps closer to
Man’s true and native nature;
ever howling, ever howling…
The stars are brightest at the peak
fore’ the golden twin streaks your
plane of power with a golden chariot.
The Beast shrinks and Pain recedes,
not completely, but enough to dull
with modern rationalisation and polite
forms of howling.
Tenerife! Alaunus! Arinna! Your brute force
stays diurnal curses; garish and sore and with
reason. There is less space for subtle, destructive
beauty to gently sweep the loud and silent howlers
into a waiting purgatory. Burn, warm and
give life and let your sisters know that I eagerly
wait to glimpse their beauteous faces.