Bittersweet

I drew a picture of you today. I tore it into pieces and ate it. I dreamt you swam through my soul, like dragons through a golden sea. I moved as you moved through me. The river it runs and I stumble and fall along its edge in my vein attempt to keep up the pace.

An enchanting evening full of faerytales and bittersweet memories. The tragedies always fulfilled in me something special, some secret lullaby of melancholy the stars hum after midnight. I walk along roads made of moondust searching for sweetly shimmering stars hiding amongst the foliage. I crafted a jar of the clearest crystal in the shape of a star, and sealed it with an ornate wire top so the stars would survive their journey to you. I search in the evenings, for the brightest ones to keep you in the light when all is closing in and falling down around you.

Tonight I am wearing my wolfskin as I sing symphonies to Beethoven. We stroll beneath the rich boughs of sacred trees and I dance around him to illustrate my point and orate my tales for which there are no words. And in the breaks between the trees we shout rumors at the Moon, who carries her gossip on sweet evening breezes.

The Cheshire follows close behind, eager to hear to riddles and pry for pieces of our minds. We are happy to fashion our replies with strange concepts for everyday items and words that have no significance when spoken together. All of us laugh, made merry with our simple jokes which have no meaning or underlying motives.

Crossing the Scotch Bonnet sphere through the veil we join the fae in celebration for the rise of the third moon. On cliffs overlooking golden seas, we look to the east where the mountains rise in a halo from the marine. Secrets are whispers that comprise the breeze that pulls the new moon from her home in the deep. The exult begins as a thousand tiny diamonds shuttling through the air in wet festival and announcement of arrival. Here in the joyous respite, the wolf with the bittersweet memory is most sacred of all…

Claret Mire

Randomly running through some vivid night, the stars will burn linear in confusion and pain. Thick the clawed branches of trees vicious as those frenemies having snuck up in front of you – those sheep in wolves clothing. Mild tempered curs, static; and everyone knows static equivocates death. Thorns and thistles, scattered and strewn over wild grounds amidst the scratching vegetation pierce and shred; leaving sanguine trail. Blood burned away long ago and those vessels fill with the acid that drives. Pumping, life’s drum beats a broken song. And the seas those windows leak could drown worlds in wake. Ripping through foliage, which grabs and clutches silken tresses abandoned in the urgency of need to be away.

Forest gives way to ruins, demolished and torched. Thoughtlessly carried on appendages bruised and numb with frost, moved by wires pulsing electricity from a generator on automatic pilot. Through arching doorways into shadowed realms, over smooth granite dark as void roped with argentate slices – silver veins in the ebon coat of dying wolves. Echoing slaps ring throughout chorused with gentle snapping, tattered garb mockingly white.

Stumble as earth gives way, like those reeds when the wind is high from the Hunt. The crimson stain climbing those pale threads perplexes, pushing on to wade through this claret mire. Plunging deeper as the ruby morass coats, surging up gullet, covering shoulders and clinging to mane. Some rubicund sand trap, dragging down.

How many can boast of drowning within blood marshes?

Silence Is A Killer

His breath billows out, white clouds from the mouths of god, and in stillness she remains – like death within shadows praying for her heart’s sake he notices. All whisper and hush, silence dynamic, the air so cold her fingers burn and yet caught in his gaze there is nothing but the flame it stirs; phoenix tending to hearth flame, and she can’t wait to burn. His movements jagged, jaunt wolf rogue and lone trailing terrain foreign and ripe with disastrous possibilities. She leans in, unbidden and unable to refuse; only those dust winged nocturnals know of this as they rush into the flame, calling that way only vampires sing ripe humanity to their death.

If he can see the dark flame hidden betwixt the shadows they shall converge; violent passion as fire and water, rippling exploding energy –dangerous with allure that consumes with a totality gods wish they knew of– Caress the frigid, measured and toiling, leisurely with a languorous pace heady as love potions of men with morals of jinn in back allies of cities known for danger. Collision firm and supple, steel and leather tangled as string cat’s attack, obliterated with desire thick and spicy – mead a shade only blood knows.

Clasping mandible, dread wolf in a vice grip, fingers burning white hot where they press; dominate romance; encroaching along with distal phalanx, sweet in dawdling rate over labellum soft. Intake sharp in hesitance, as delicate the digit is rolled over incisor lengthy and scalpel sharp; lack of fear induces trembling at acceptance forever unknown. Saccharine and consuming, plummet into the moment -furious longing, smoldering necessity, overwhelming ache. That muzzle is burrowed deep inside the hollows of his rachen nipping, nuzzling, grazing; wandering in utter delicacy lest flesh be rent and life spilled.

Impacting cavitas oris split all boundaries leaving only the conflagration, vivid and alive and enveloping as unconsciousness – without escape. Exploration bursts violent red, fury of the unsatisfied. Desire to consume, intake, devour overshadowing logic and caution; tsunamis capable of utter annihilation crashing into one another, shattering reminiscent of stars.

Faltering he pulls away, unsure of the surge and its capacity to obliterate all else; wildly ensnaring her fingers encase his face jerking his vision to hers. Within her orbs all of her soul is lay bare, rapid gasp as the desire contained within is not just skin deep; she’d devour him with her soul and replace his with hers given the opportunity…

Her lids raise and the realization all of this perceivable only within her heart’s wish filled those spheres with oceans. Raising her muzzle to the sky she breathes deep, implanting bits of his soul within hers and flesh; memory of what she cannot have bearable if given the tools to dream with. As he turns his eyes catch hers and silently their gaze’s burn into each others, eons pass and worlds die as stars are born; and her soul blazes with the want to speak of her need for him –

…If only I could understand the words your soul whispers to me

Love Is Just A Bloodsport…

How fast can you run when it is merely your mind you run from? The avid eyes of harpies are diligent to say the least… The myriad of hues that makes up the world, sullen in its sophistication. Strange the rhythm that seems to haunt every chamber and vessel, clamoring for attention not readily given. The maddening rush seems all encompassing. It always burns like fire.

Who would bespell the damned? Fierce in competition, the razor teeth were sharper than those of the sanguine predators. Like scalpels of the damned, wolfteeth gleamed with a ferocity to scare even the eldest of bloods. Infuriating as it was, they couldn’t help but shove their hands directly into the mouth of the beast. The screams were predictable and though the rest heard them in the end there was no hope as more in the line continued to step up, lambs to the slaughter, all prepared to have their hands and arms rendered to shreds of what was once limb.

I Miss The Moon

She ran hard and fast. Ran on through the grasses, thundering between trees and bursting through bushes in a fury of twigs and leaves. Her wolfskin was hard upon her and that itself made her heart ache, pained and weary with recent events. Foolish she had been, and yet was there ever a time when she was anything but a fool? The miles passed swiftly beneath her feet. Pounding through dead leaves, dank rich earth thick with the scent of vegetations decay; over rocks and pebbles crushing into brisk waters flowing with their angry torrents – grasping grabbing so eagerly for her. She wanted to let go and embrace its caress deep into its raging rocky depths, but the anger and pain burned high in her and she galloped on. Running into the night as though she could catch the moon, so close and still so far; nearly hiding in its new skin. She wanted to hate them, those silly things with their exemplar ideals; such farces and still so embraced. Naive sheep with their stories of how the hero defeats the boogieman, the big bad nasty thing.

They had come with their silver, ignorant and full of fear. Immunity was hers through chance and accident; and what a charade to think it might kill her, that maybe if she just let enough sink down into her it would work its toxic will and bind her to death. She howled the anguish. She envied them with their ignorance to believe that everything was better when you hunted down the monster; how can that be when you are the monster? And she ran ran until everything was burned away by the sheer need and will to run; ran until there was no more fear or rage or pain. She ran until forever passed beneath her feet.