What happens when they get too old to change?
When moonlight doesn’t fire their blood, enough,
The songs sung from wood are merely noise,
That no commercial amplifier can raise, until
The hackles on the back rise up no more.
The hairs have fallen from the palms, the brow
Looks plucked now, and divides into two halves.
They turn no longer in their solid skins.
What happens when there is no magic pill?
When the whole world is molly, or wolfbane.
No industry strives hard to counteract,
Time’s slow affront to supernatural lives.
We can do it the slow way for a price.
Of course, we never said it wouldn’t hurt,
But then you have no option but to try,
Who would die, wrong-shaped, if a chance remained,
To once more howl defiance into the sky,
And know the deeper velvet of the Night.
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