Taste now liquids of both life and of death and run from those bolts of steel and poison as they fly out from  crossbow. Pack alive and live before the night of the wolves. Pack hunters alive and streaking live, crossing the full moon toward another kill and the sated salty taste of blood plenty, spreading quickly upon ground level and from the fallen.

Um-mm…alive and then the quick-time of the dead. Tis a very good moment to live and to die.

Priest chant singsong into the night, St. Gregory’s, as wolves call moonlight into the fading shadow-lands and the darkness of pine rooms and black satin covers those hidden inside dying places away from eyes gone red and white fangs before they grow their own weapons and teeth. Why run and hide? Are you afraid of the eternity of life?

Running now from red eyes and toward the slowing kill. To howl and to jump into that vicious night and die the fast death and to live again under eternal darkness and the calls of blood hungry spirits.

Instantly, she will bleed and she will feed her addictions and continue her endless life within the endless night. The drums of warrior flight and the passing sounds of those running from the wolves and from the light.

Hungry for sex or for blood or for both life and the sweet agony of tiny death. Recall! We all aspire to permanence or to a permanent wish of whispers. Spell castings against unholy Gods and priest’s scream away the terror of life without the strength of truth and the eternal hunger for sleep.

Maybe damned and then maybe never to walk stooped shuffled with age and doubled with blood hunger and the love of complete death.

Legends never die alive with moon howling and running with the wolves of night. Pine rooms and flower boxes and from their sanctuary the blood hungry fear the light. So! Listen to the night of the Wolf. Free? Why-Yes!

Hard to be an upright walker?  Hard to be a man and hard to be an angel…at the same time? Would rather pack-run and drink the honest blood of an honest race. Rather to forever moon-howl than hide inside a truthless self of both questions and fear.

And! Beautiful you are…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0LSO-dtsxo   “Christian Girl” by Type ‘O’ Negative

What is the short gap between birth and death but a series of killer memories and of events too quickly enjoyed, endured, conquered, failed and never understood. And! The passage of these occurrences happens (not a good word but occurrences can happen or not happen depending on how you stand when you see them happen-I’ve also had these things happen when in a horizontal position-though I doubt whether you will see me sleep or I will sleep just outside your open door.)  So sail on to another land beneath another sky.

There is always something better somewhere else and our golden ones will wait until we can find them. ‘It’ is just a bullet or a jump away. Always slow and not as we wish, but this wish depends on the pain of your perspective. So what is a quick few years. I rolled a rock that played with me as a child as did father and before him father and before him another and another and another in a line of blood that originated and developed scant few years ago. My son plays there even now though the stone has rolled over many miles between my childhood suns and where I almost call home.

Anyway it is her place, not mine. I only sleep and eat inside these walls and I pretend to not play in my almost home.

I’d rather be somewhere else. I’d rather sail on to another land beneath another sky and dance ring around the rouses children by that rock that is even bigger than short years ago when father rolled it with small boy hands and molded his place to enjoy a warm summer night’s breeze that set his red hair dancing across little boy’s face, hiding one eye just before he brushed hair away.

Breeze unsettled, little hand replaced and smoothed the smooth face of stone. Would he have believed that someday his grandchild would have died before him? Could he have believed that he would have died so young?

This garden is hilltop high and we come here almost twice to plant flowers and remember sometime with our voices. Tree lined field already picked and plowed of life crosses my path as I rest inside the woods and look down to cattle and fence and trees and fields and a creek bed dry except for trickles of water caught by pools and deposited by rains covering this hill and that valley just last evening.

So! Are you my Cinnamon Girl?  Watch! My baby loves to dance.

And…Beautiful you are.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3voGI4_KgmM   Locked Within The Crystal Ball  by Blackmore’s Night