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