Werewolf by Simon MacCulloch

The change is short, though painful – what is worse

Is that which follows – hours of degradation

My mind and body twisted by the curse

And harnessed to a foul imagination

Whose cruel deeds, too dreadful to rehearse

Confirm my sickened spirit’s desecration.


My victims are the weakest, and their cries

Would rouse a tender conscience in a stone

But look, my chickens, deep into my eyes

The hunger there will eat you to the bone.

The tide is loosed, and when compassion dies

The hunter’s heart will beat for blood alone.


I’ve borne the mark since history began

And walk in hell until the moment when

The fever’s run its moon-allotted span

And lets me scurry shameful to my den

To shed the hateful shape of demon Man

And, freed of evil, be a wolf again.


Simon MacCulloch lives in London. He is a regular contributor to Reach Poetry, The Dawntreader and Sarasvati.


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