Werewolf poetry

Noble Werewolf by Mistress Lunatic (from http://mistresslunatic.homestead.com/):

The night was young, and deliciously cold -
Her skin twitched and quivered, puckering into goosebumps.
Preternatural eyes of a golden nature,
like twin suns set into the pale facet
of flawless alabaster skin
Lifted heavenward, and drank the moonlight in with
the hunger of a ravenous beast,
Making her heady as if she'd just imbibed a glass of
Well-aged white wine.

Silken garments lay strewn about her,
Scattered like unwanted rags to slowly dampen and soil
On grass that was sure to become laden with dew come
Morning.
Dropping to all fours,
she waited, quietly, patiently, for the first sign
That she would change.

A groan broke the enchantment that had settled into a dark silence, and
the sinewy female buried the tip of each manicured digit
into the cool, dark soil -
Spine arching into a crescent moon as rich white fur sprouted from her flesh,
much like new shoots of grass in the spring,
But with a quickness that left her gasping in the cool night air.

Seeking comfort, she forced those brilliant amber orbs
toward the heavily pregnant moon, and clenched elongated
Teeth together as they cracked, bone protruding ever forward into
a dangerous snout, so that at least, while bones crunched
And sinews snapped and stretched, she might
Howl her wanton anguish to that white mother laid out
amongst her bed of diamond stars.

Another wolven scream echoed against the trees
as the joints of her legs popped into the opposite direction,
And pampered pads of feet and hands toughened, bubbled,
while black claws replaced the sparkling white of human fingernails.

Ah, the anguish was exquisite! The pain nearly
too much to bear;
Rolling forward like a beaten cub she writhed upon the moon-kissed
grass and dug her dark nose into the soil as, finally,
her vertebrae finished their replication and extended into one
Elegantly arched, pure white tail of a fur that even a cat would covet.

Surely, wolves could never cry - but two pained tears
lingered in each inner corner of those bewitching yellow eyes,
and died quietly in the depths of pure white fur.
A princess, high and noble with blood of a royal blue would
not have wept, to be sure, at such a pain, but bear it proudly
She was both, and neither - a mistaken cross
which came from the mixing of pure nobility with ancient blood
that kept her a slave to the waxing of that glowing moon.

For a moment, the human mind reigned, and her heart,
As it had been doing for years, broke yet again.

But even before she was conscious of a sound, those stately silver
ears swiveled, pointing away from her misery and instead toward
The freedom that was the forest, the wild -
and a set of pale blue eyes set against black fur met her alert and ready gaze.
It was even more swift than the alteration of skin to pelt,
This transference from human mind to wolf,
which demanded nothing, no nothing,
but freedom and the need to capture the enchantment that was night
In that beautiful, preternatural white muzzle.

And so, she simply ran.
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