The Clan of the Dog.

Come and work your magic,

turn this whiteness to black

and sack all promise of

the virtue that was clung to; a wretch

confusing itself for a saviour.

The hunters gift is just out of sight,

grinning in the distance

inviting my canines to extend

and adjust the jaws to savage use.

The slaughter brings regret and joy

both;

weeping mingles with spilt blood

and is impossible to distinguish;

my heckles rise and shake off

the last prejudice of kindness.

What was once beheld with joy

for its spirit, is now consumed

with similar admiration.