The Wolven Pride:
We are hunted down as monsters;
By legends demonised.
We are feared as devilish creatures
In your pitiful human eyes...
But let me try and teach you
Of why we do not fear.
Because we actually enjoy it
When the hunters seek us here.
In the forest we are champions
In the night we rule the lands.
The hunter becomes the hunted
And dies by our hands.
Fangs will pierce his fragile throat
His flesh is torn to shreds.
It is the fear and scent of death
That the hunter truly dreads.
But we alone shall know no fear
For by the moon we shall be blessed.
Draped in Luna's loving embrace;
We bet our life with every breat
She loved the scent
of ink and smoke -
and the way strangers
caressed her name
like the verdant rushes
rolling off the river bank,
or a low slung
black dress
sprawled dangerously
across the floor.
Mornings found her
curled up
where the light
shivered blue
and the cat's tale
lingered like a secret,
waking her from dreams
brighter than early frost.
But it was night
that bought and sold her,
made her heart a trinket,
dressing her in silk
as new as nuptials -
that flagrant shade of flush
and the rough and tumble
of her hips
serenading the world