lycanthrope The sky is drab
and travelled.
Climbing the hill steadily,
it crumbles
and throbs with each movement.
To the sides
are a great vastness
of green and life,
tree after tree,
become one river,
each different voice
merging without a ripple to form
a mist, humming
and wispy.
Roads naturally rise,
pointing out a barren pinnacle
topped only by a single tree.
Twisted and contorted,
firing off dark, most branches
at every angle,
It stands alone and frequently
pure, almost pornographic
in its unrelenting and ridiculous

The people who went off the road
to it, mainly the young or the lost,
they have climbed it many times;
Rested in its grooves,
admiring its disposal to touch.
They have named it Prophet
and claim it is their foothold
against the gods.
And now it stands forcefully
jutting out against plain and gray
and ancient sky,
biting like an angry mouth.
what's it to you?
who go