by M.V. Moorhead
Certain was I that the lupine sinew,
The terrible riot of scent and of taste,
The desolate fen as my borderless venue,
Would grant me an ecstasy, bloody but graced.
So, to a threadbare magician, a boon
I paid in return for the potions and chants
That spoken aloud in the bright of the moon,
Would make me the Beast of the moor’s great expanse.
But in my new skin, I was bitterly taught
That sharp as my virginal canines might rend,
And swift were the pink-padded paws I had sought,
Neither were fierce as the thorn, or the wind.
Thus to the wizard I'm bringing more gold.
I want my old shape back. This one's too cold.
© DOCKYARD PRESS