PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The Hound awakens,

Besides it I lie,

It rises fluidly not unlike a sudden autumn breeze,

Rustling leaves...

I let my hand fall off the hound,

Let my fingers run through its silken fur.

Now, the Hound turns its head to me,

Not looking at but within,

Plundering the depths of a mortal soul,

An insight leagues beyond my reach,

All but shallow to the hound,

Piercing the fog of self inflicted lies with luminescent eyes.

The Hound reads me as a book,

Sniffing, questing for misgivings,

I lose myself in the ebon slivers that is its irises,

Those green eyes promising not only verdant life,

But also hidden cruelties with poorly veiled fangs,

Perhaps not so hidden...

The Hound edges closer still,

It's hot breath pluming on my face,

Condensing on my sweat dampened face,

Barely restrained in its primal fury,

Shivers wrack the Hound's muscular frame,

It's glorious silver hackles bristling in rage,

Vexed by the abhorrence that is my weakness.

It grins toothily,

Revealing daggers in place of teeth,

Which shred my flesh...

A savage lunge between heartbeats,

A frozen moment in time,

Crimson rivulets spray,

Painting the air I breathe,

Painting the ground I lie upon.

In that moment I see,

As I gasp and struggle to breathe,

I see the life of the others fruitful only in futility,

As I bleed into the Hound,

I see it's gaze fixed on me,

I see that he is not the Reader,

He is not the Book,

He is not the Monster they make him to be,

He is the Writer,

This is my becoming,

My brethren circle me.