Image for the poem The Sword and the Werewolf

The Sword and the Werewolf

Back in my day kid, yeah back in my day things were DIFFERENT. They were BETTER. Werewolves were feared and snails forgotten and trampled after a solid full moon and a rain. You see it always rained on the full moon. They used to say that the moon was Godís eye and once a month he needed a good cry. So all he had to do was open one eye and look at us and he would openly weep. He couldnít open both eyes. That shit would kill him. That much pain. He would off himself that night.
So what did God do? He gave us werewolves and called it a night and now they haunt this village every full moon. It comes and goes and some people come and go and some peopleís dogs come and go. Beware the full moon. Itís coming. God is watching. But they lie to you, see. They tell you heís always watching. He isnít. Itís a goddamn lie. Itís a fucking outright myth. They get away with it these priests and tabernacles. Building monuments to their falsehoods. It isnít about God, my friend.
Nope, if it ever was I wasnít here for it, Iíll tell you that much. Nope, never seen a monk Iíd trust. Give Ďem to the werewolves I say. I think thatís why God gave us the werewolves. He was trying a new purge. Something a little creative this time. Not just a big ass flood. Woosh and itís all gone, a clean slate, nice and fresh. Fresh and clean.
But no, thereís nothing clean left in this world. Everything has a thin layer of filth all over it. Itís there. You canít see it. You can only feel it. Itís accentuated when two people touch. You touch and you can feel this layer in between you. This dirt. Uncleanliness. Itís the tie that binds. For better or for worse. Weíre married to it.
No, thereís no divorce lawyer in the land that can get you out of this one, kiddo. Nope, not a single fuckiní one. Well yes, of course. You can follow Henry VIII. Of course. I never said you couldnít. But beware. Beware.
Those who live by the sword will die by the werewolf.
God isnít always watching but heíll see eventually wonít he? And then? Maybe if youíre lucky youíll just transform yourself. That would be an act of mercy, of grace, of LOVE. You believe me, donít you?
You ought to. That is the only thing you can truly hope to achieve. Itís the pinnacle here in this town. A lycanthrope of love.
Yeah, it has a nice ring to it, but go and tell me if it still does after the next full moon. Thereís no transformation without pain. There is no ascension without agony. When you fly higher youíre forced to look down.
And you know what? When youíre up there looking down youíre gonna cry too.
Maybe one day there will be enough tears raining down to wash us clean. But I doubt it. No, Iíve resigned myself to the dirt of the earth. Iím not looking to fly up. Iím digging down. Icarus flies and I dig. I'm happy down here with the snails.
We all transform. And those who donít, perish. Live by the transformation, die by the transformation.
Well, of course, not everyone lives through it. It isnít like that. There are always casualties. This is a war. This is a war between us and the werewolves. You pick your side and you do what you can. One way or the other though, thereís a war out there. You donít always see it but every day another death brings us nowhere closer to the end. There is no permanent end. Only your own.
The world turns on. God will keep weeping for his creations. So you transform as much as you can in your own lifetime. And you weep too. Weep for the past. Weep for the present. Weep for the future. Because you see back in my day, friend, there were CHANGES. And there are in your day too. And when everything changes and you look down on those below and all you can do is weep youíll remember:
You canít save them all.
Written by pizzapocketeer
Author's Note
Live by the sword, die by the werewolf.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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