Scarlet tears, intangible grave, here is where the bravest lays.
Lit beneath the full moon high, the night takes over the day.
Corpse less yet so dramatic, the bodiless grave of a friend,
A man walks by, dressed in rags, wanting his existence to end.
The sleeper sleeps his dreamless sleep, as the man looks over the dirt –
A crack of lightning lights the scene; illuminating the pain, the hurt.
He cannot bare the silent nights, the deepest, darkest dreams –
About those everlasting times, things he accomplished as a teen.
Now though he stands, a broken man, with nothing on his mind,
But carnage, killing, once a month, yet for this moment he is fine.
Though in time to come, the moon will itself reveal,
And then the broken man will change, into a rabid beast looking for a meal.
Yet what to come is lost on him – the broken man so torn,
Of course, all good times come to an end – and this time would end by morn.
From his pocket, the rapidly changing frayed beast drew,
A black handgun, as fresh and new as the morning dew.
Lengthening fingers pulled the trigger; a howl of rage erupted –
The wolf inside had been bested, by silver bullets, and the taunted.