“Birds sing after a storm, why shouldn’t people feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?” – Rose Kennedy

there’s a hymn of starlight in the air tonight
and clouds scar the obsidian black sky
there are whispers in the cells of my being tonight
a cool wind blows and I feel alive

behold the death
behold the new life

there is a rush of sanguine pleasures in my veins
it burns and bubbles towards the change
a new creature awaits to come forth
the moon is pregnant and creation pauses

behold the death (I am dying)
behold the new life (this is my rebirth)

transformations rush over me
skin dissolve to ashes of the past
a new me breaks forth from the cocoon
the night is young and soon…

behold the new life
behold the little wolf has come
behold death is past
behold the resurrection

(c) 2014 allen simpson
I love the werewolf myths, it is fun to play there. Metamorphasys, the poem’s name is a play on the words ‘metamorphosis’, ‘phase’ and ‘status’  with some funky liberties on correct spelling. It has been said that we poets are the creators of new words. Here is my creation.

I took this photo for this poem deliberately. I call it ‘Transformation’