Stroke.

Stroke the dark.

Pet it, like the ocean does the shore.

Lick its wounds, as you would for your father. Your brother. Your mother. Your lover.

He walks. Gently. Carefully.

Twigs snapping under his paws. Leaves brushing against his pelt.

Howl. His howl. It roars like thunder and it covers a great distance.

I felt it. Became it. I am it.

And now I’m always looking up at the moon. Wanting to get back.

Back to your lungs.

My beautiful beast. Howl. Look up. Howl.

Cry out.

Cry out for the downtrodden. Cry out for hope. Cry out for grace. Cry out for mercy. Cry out for you. Cry out for me. Cry out for us. Cry out to a stranger. Cry out to a mother. Cry out to a God you don’t know is listening. Cry out to the trees. Cry out to the greedy. Cry out to the poor. Cry out to the terrible. Cry out to the horrible. Cry out to the dead. Cry out and don’t let it die out. Howl.

Howl.

Voyeuristic eyes. Curious. Peer out into the dead of night.

It sees everything.

And it’s ugly. And it’s gorgeous. It’s overwhelming. His chest implodes.

His mouth open.

Howl.

He’s on the prowl.

Howl.

You’re gone too soon and you’re skating on the moon. For you, I howl.

You’re crying and blackbirds are dying. For you, I howl.

My bed’s on fire, and I’m burning in it. For me, you howl.

He howl’s and I travel. Over the winds, I travel. Under wings, I travel.

Howl.

The night is the knife and I am the blade.

The wind is my partner and Howl is my trade.

Siren in the distance with a bluesy twang. Not an ambulance. Not justice.

Howl.

The beast that stalks, the beast that walks, with eyes that pierce and venom in his bite.

He looks up. Howls. I am born again tonight.

An expressionless facade, I’m the expression of something beautiful.

A gesture of something graceful.

A bow, from a performer to an adoring public.

Curtains.

Howl.

RobertVolkerts
My blog