We, the Beasts
#2 of Poetry
A battle cry for our community-at-large. We are prolific, and we are anxious to show our prowess. Why don't we?
I am not what you think I am.
I am feral, blood marking my age on my teeth, Strings of raw flesh trapped in my gums. My fingers manipulate my skin, Pulling and tugging it over bone and sinew, Deforming it, layers of butcher paper on meat. Sweat rolls in rivulets, Mapping the topography of my muscles; Muscles aching to be free.
I am many parts, and many wholes. I can deform myself into intricately finer and finer shapes Until I am sharp and focused and barely noticable. I am able to conform like no other; But the muscles inside me, they yearn-- They grow acidic with strain and use. My deformation holds back wonders, Twisted walls that contain a god.
You know my face--the lines between my eyes. You know the constellations of pores upon my body, But you do not know me. Deep beneath this surface, I hold magic, Contained by an ever-softening dam. With each year that slips by, I grow confident, I grow strong, I swell with power and prestige. And I am not alone.
We, the beasts. We, the infernal creations, the machinations of welling ennui, We the former, now the new! Our defenses have weakened, our cores now free, And akin to lightning storms on hot summer nights, We distort our world with vivid intensity! Hear our cries, for we are whole, We are focused, though we are large; Gigantic in scope, precise in nature! I am a scalpel, she is a laser, he is a needle. I, a claw. She, a tooth. He, a horn. We, the creatues who are borne of human longing; We, the animal kind and animal kings. We the former, now the new; We, the beasts!