On Lycan Love


Your love is the sound the trees make

when I race through the groves and thickets

surrounding our little city.

It is the leaves crunching beneath my paws,

the soft yielding earth,

the rivers and springs I can not cross.


Your love is the taste the wind leaves

on the tongue in my slavering jaws-

the familiar, feral flavor.

It is the strength of the gusts through my fur,

the wavering boughs,

the roaring storm in my pointed ears.


Your love is the scream my prey makes

as I bury my fangs in its throat

and rip the life from its body.

It is the satisfying snap of spine,

the torn, bloody flesh,

the crimson tide blazing in my eyes.


Your love is the shift in my skin

when the world’s twilight has come and gone,

and the witching hour is nigh.

It is the orgasmic stretch and pull,

the coarse, springing hair,

the goddess’s gift to my species.


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