If Werewolves Were Today's Outcasts

I was walking down a dark path one night,

a dark river of rocks stretched out before me,

admiring the silver hypnosis of the moon

how it reflected off the crackles of gravel beneath my boot,

casting the hillside flora in a white blue whisper;

wondering if monsters from paranoid lore existed today

how many silver bullets could the moonlight make

to pierce the hearts of broken monsters

and tame the cold sweat of civilian dreams?

The maw of a tunnel glows brassy and gray,

a harsh concrete contrast to the sweetness of night

a sour buzz from the piss yellow lights

serves a reminder of our urban ways.

If werewolves were burned alongside witches,

strung up in trees from centuries ago,

would they be trapped in concrete cells today

awaiting a testimony for their difference in breed?

Would they be sent to padded cells to be "kept safe"

from their claws begging to be freed from their curse, their "illness"

as doctors find cures to sell to the masses

so we don't have to be afraid any more

while they fill their pockets with ill-gotten riches,

preying upon the monsters of old.

My footsteps echo empty in the tunnel

as hollow as empty spaces full of desires to fit in.

Monsters like werewolves are always human

made different by small details in physical features,

conditions, and needs.

They've blended in with us for so long,

like our friends with illnesses we cannot see.

We're none the wiser but

outcast them by a nature they cannot help,

disgusted by a beast we hardly see.

What if beneath the thunderous growls,

the piercing eyes ready kill,

the eyes of the werewolf were pleading,

the growls hiding whispers hoarse from screaming?

The moonlight makes enough silver bullets

to pierce our hearts through shivering ears

that hear behind the beast's fearsome fangs

a soft, scared, and broken wish:

Help me.

Love