The Full Stomach of the Moon

Curse'd be the arduous change.
A life of blood, sweat, and mange.
He is the applique of man and beast.
Aperitif; blood 'fore the feast.

Of a wild and archaic kind.
Of a broken and tortured mind.
The rasp of the voice,
the lust of the choice.
Dancing to the feral tune,
he runs with the full stomach of the moon.

Sanguinary dreams shadow his sleep,
hiding the beast he is forced to keep.
Remorse trapped inside an iron shrine.
Revered nevermore from a violent mind.
Love a sidelight for which he has no time.
Thralldom of the reason, not the rhyme.

Eyes that loom through the night.
Lurking for a child's fright.
The creep of the paws,
the scrape of the claws.
Dancing to the feral tune,
he runs with the full stomach of the moon.

A vulgarian of the sanguine,
he prowls the night without being seen.
The horrid death of his humanity,
murder being his sole declivity.
He roams this life without a friend,
running each swollen moon 'til its end.
The assonance of the haunting howl,
assuaging all those who prowl.
Assiduous steps taken to stalk.
Hush just now, no need to talk.
No need to give yourself away,
you'll live longer if you don't stray.
No need to feel the crack of skull,
if only to him, it is his lull

A pin-feathered soul,
a heart like a hole.
The red-blooded howl,
the arcane prowl
Dancing to the feral tune,
he will always run with each full moon