Luna

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.