by Nick Gisburne
The moon is full. My soul is barren, black.
The call, the curse, the craving, drags me down.
I feel, but never fight it; my attack
Is punishment and payment for a crown.
They huddle, heaped in misery, my pets,
Too pitiful, too dreary to describe,
And in their terror every fool forgets
I walked here once, the father of their tribe.
A sacrifice. They leave him, lost, alone,
Condemned to face a shade they dare not see.
With every pulsing piece of meat, I moan,
Revolted by the man, the monster, me.
Their king, renounced, in exile did not die.
My heart, forever hungry, wonders why.
