they ride horses, yet you ride a stag –
this glittering, great, valiant thing;
while horribly behind they drag,
still waiting for the hills to sing.
the ground is laden with bitter ghosts
of souls both old and new,
for the gleaming rifles that they boast
leave you red, not black and blue.
when the forest comes alive,
will you draw your sword and fight?
or – god forbid – your fingers five
become possessed by the night?
that cursēd spirit clings to you,
like thorns sunk through your skin,
(i can’t tell if your intentions true
are to conquer flesh and win)
for i am neither wolf nor girl,
rather something in between
and you have the only human soul
that i think i have seen
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