To be a Werewolf...More Like This
Imagine for just a moment. Imagine what it would be, to be a Werewolf...
Imagine yourself standing in a field. It's dark, wind is blowing lightly, and moonlight is spilling out over the grass. A silvery light that steals most color. Clouds hide the moon for now.
In the distance, a howl. The howl is much larger and louder than a dog's, or even a wolf's. This howl sends a shiver down your spine. You stomach tingles with excitement, and fear.
You'd like to believe that you're not afraid. Deep down you are. You're frightened at this horrible sound.You quickly try and force it out of your mind.
You try to think of something else. Anything else... but you can't.
Again you hear it, closer now. The fear returns. The excitement returns.
This time it's lodged in your mind, replaying the horrible disturbance of the quiet, again and again. Your breathing starts to pick up, without your consent. The grass around you is rather tall, but still below waist level. You'd see something if it would approa
The NecromancerThe time has come to call to rise,More Like This
My faithful servants tombs I reign,
The fallen ones whom you despise,
Shall now return your rightful pain.
Oh, yes! My dear necropolis,
Bestow on me an army grand,
Forgotten leagues of Lazarus,
Who sleep so firm in grasp of land.
Forsaken troops and paladins,
You rotten spawn of Satans barge,
Release a wave of plague and sins,
With specter horse, I mount the charge.
With onyx robes and ivory stoles,
The mages float on vapors green,
And sound that bell for you it tolls,
To wipe your slates of spirit clean.
The war now done, return our calm,
My loyal subjects rest each bone,
With carbon scepter in my palm,
I judge upon my midnight throne.
Coffee House AdvertisementOnce upon a Friday dreary,More Like This
from 7 to 9 I wasn't weary
over a cup of coffee, steaming,
to the sounds of poetry.
So distinctly, I remember,
'twas the 10th day of November
and each stage light's burning ember
wrought its ghost upon the floor.
I never nodded, never napping,
for on the microphone, a tapping,
'twas an artist
singing songs no mortal dared to sing before.
And the poets, never quitting, still are sitting, still are sitting
on the couches, that are falling from the stage onto the floor.
For admission, just five dollars
it will free you from your choler.
Merely this and nothing more.