Luna – Stacey McPhail

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

bespoke bars.

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.

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