imagination dead imagine

The gold of the day is dissolving into the silver of the night. They are coming out. The wolves. Howling… Calling you to them. Beckoning you.

You wonder if you should go out to play. You wonder if it’s time yet. And then the blue moon is shining it’s wicked smile on you. Something’s not right. The room reels. The affinity to wolves…? Something’s amiss. You are afraid of the dark… or are you?

The howls… More distinct. Clear sounds of malice in the dead of the night. And then the metamorphosis. The spikes on your back. The hair on your skin. A wolf, but not quite. Ancient rituals in frozen pasts eternalized to present themselves to you.

Demons. In Red. Dancing for you. Chanting. Calling. Confused and in pain, you are almost crawling towards the fire. To be burnt.

But wait? Whose love is it? Nobody’s. The one you love is lost to life. And he has nothing but silent contempt for you. That which he disguises well with charm. Back away from the fire. You will not be consumed today. The hatred bubbles inside you once again as you tear away on your own skin.

Your metamorphosis is complete now. Werewolves. You are one. And that explains the affinity.

Howwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwl……

- Neha

Tags: Metamorphosis, Black Arts, Hatred, Werewolves

This entry was posted by Neha on Saturday, March 11th, 2006 at 03:32 pm. It is filed under Figments, Neha Jhingon. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.