Lycanthropus

The jellied night has oozed its miry blackFrom out the hills to fill the valley floor. Atop the ragged hills the torn cloud-wrack Is lightning-limned into a hellish door. A gust of wind across the sky is hurled— The gods of old are loosed upon the world.

Age-old, the blood-lust wells within my throat; Tensely I wait, and feel my body shrink; My hairless hide becomes a furry coat. Blood-hungry, through the opened door I slink; I raise my head and howl in horrid glee— And from the plain a howl comes back to me. C. Edgar Bolen