The Plight of Man

This atavistic rift in my nature 
Creeps and punches without warning
And renders one more beast than man

Lycanthrope, prowling the secluded woodlands
The faint scent of blood
Receipted by nostrils flared
The taste of flesh
Upon this salivating tongue
Somewhere, a handmaiden cries out in pain

Waking to stained hands 
And a belly full of rocks
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Death Knell

The tolling of bells
Sounding out across this deserted town
Standing frozen in the middle of the dust-swept street
A hunched shadow moves silent across a rooftop 
A lonesome crow croaks out a drawn-out syllable 
Before taking to the overcast skies

I can hear them approaching from the north side
A blood-thirsty horde
Intent on devouring my insides 
For the florid blood that flows in these veins

But who is the real monster?
The end is not nigh 
It is here
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