Lycanthrope

Lycanthrope
By Mark Spencer

I can hear the forest breathing,
As I forge the darkened wood.
I can feel a heartbeat heaving,
As only Mother Nature's could.

The night is intoxicating,
And I feel the hunger burning.
For many weeks, it's been waiting,
My lust for prey, ever yearning.

The full moon rises in the sky,
Shining on a field of clover.
I feel my humanity die,
The bloodlust has taken over.

Ahead, my human prey awaits,
Within the city before me.
Unaware of approaching fate,
That none but I could foresee.

From the window of her bedroom,
I see her wake, sensing the dread.
Of demons peering through the gloom,
She pulls the sheets over her head.

But a blanket won't protect her,
From the hunger that burns in me.
I'm not some make believe spectre,
Or a creature of fantasy.

It is time for the cursed to feed,
To, once more, taste innocent flesh.
I must make haste and quell my need,
While blood flows, and the meat is fresh.

Beware, ladies of tender age,
Should we meet, abandon hope.
As the full moon ignites my rage,
I shall become the lycanthrope.

End.