Disclaimer: I don't own anything, except the writing and base. And therefore, since I do own that, this poem is copyrighted to me, Mister Cellophane, and if you copy it for your own distribution under your name, or someone else's, or even mine, then I'll hunt you down and rip you to shreds. Or something like that. Well, not really, but I WILL do SOMETHING!
A/N: This is just a little poem with not so great writing that I've concocted after re-reading the third Harry Potter book, and got thinking about what it might be really like to be a Werewolf. Now, I know Remus Lupin has never killed anyone before, but I wrote it as if he was telling the story, not necessarily about himself, but what might happen to him, and what it's like for others. Okay? Thanks.
READ and REVIEW, but ABSOLUTELY NO FLAMES WELCOME! I'm a bit touchy…LoL.
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The Heart of a Werewolf
As the cold moon rises,
So does the beast,
Beneath the misty haze.
Treading upon,
The dampened earth,
On it's monthly escapades.
An affliction of the body,
A punishment of soul,
The transformation trails,
Along with all my faults,
All that I resent,
And my victims' wails.
Sniff the air,
And descend upon my prey,
Leaving bloodied claws,
The flesh of which,
I have spilled life,
Remains shredded in my jaws.
The howl escapes,
Between the blood,
And showers on the night,
The call of the wild,
Heart of man,
Mixed with wolfish plight.
And in the dark,
A cry is heard,
But only in my mind,
Of torment and,
Public persecution,
Which of this kind finds.
Upon the hill,
Beneath Luna,
Whipped by the North Wind,
I stand abroad,
Looking down,
To soil my claws are pinned.
I await a lonely trail,
Played forth by only Gods,
In which I am ridden from,
All of my problems,
Hate and secrets,
But which will never come.
And to be stuck,
Like this forever,
Is the worst part of it all,
Alone in the world,
And shamed upon,
Inside the Golden Hall.
In passing day,
You'd never know,
That I am not a man,
That every full moon,
Of the cycle,
Beneath it I have ran.
A Werewolf hides,
Beneath the lies,
Of normalcy and merriment,
The widowed smiles,
And outer look,
Ignore the long nights spent.
Inside I suffer,
In Decay,
To rust my spirit 'till I'm lost,
To reap the land of innocence,
To purge the souls,
Of people cost.
A Werewolf knows not,
Of a normal day,
Forever is he trapped in life,
To kill, to change,
To rip, to tear,
And bear the burden and the strife.
-Mister Cellophane. August 11th, 2004.
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A/N: Please Review, but NO FLAMES! Thanks!