1 The Beast Who Scorned Love Poem by Johan Fourie

At night the beast of remorse, sorrow and shame is released cause it’s dark
…..for I have made someone I love truly cry and despair
…….and I howl with the were wolves

The Beast calls my name at night and enters the locked portals
…….it reminds me I have treated a friend who truly loves me as the enemy
………and I run with the wolves in the frost at night

…each night, the Beast presents the case of my love
….she loves me unconditional without reserve, and I challenged it
…….and the razor teeth of the wolves shear into my soul
…for as the new member of the pack I am unwelcome
….and I weaken, the last to feed I scavenge the putrid remains left by the jackal

The list in the claw of the Beast is longer than my arm
…….her loyalty, kindness and generosity has no measure
……..and I howl in agony and regret as they tear pieces of flesh from my chest

The Beast reminds me of my failure and sin
……I enticed an innocent shy, late blooming Rose in the garden to bud, even though fearful
…..I have no more voice as the beast tears at the exposed tendons

In his angry, glaring eyes the message clear and the truth
……….I enticed the delicate bud to bloom into an amazing display of foliage and precious silky petals, filled with nectar so’s I could feast, and drink wolfishly, and for me to smell greedily cherished delicate fragrance that filled the soft evening breeze

..and I have no option but, to damn myself to a slow journey
……..arduous and painstakingly thorough I will vanquish
…….and in the eons of wandering with the brigade of lost souls as they trek over the plains
My withered remains will be blown by the bitter cold polar winds on the plains
…every winter so to be the same as a thousand past
And in summer the finality of my disposal will be to be the compost
…at the roots of a fragile, withered mourning rose tree, once beautiful fulfilled

And come spring and then summer and then autumn again
…I once the compost, now the withered foliage, and sheared off twigs
Will be blown on the plains in the wind
….damned to eternity to accompany the fragile rose bush, who will never again bud…, or bloom

And in late winter she cries again, as the gardeners’ shears come to prune
…cause at every cut from deep within tears run down
…..to remind my of my shame, remorse and sorrow
….and I, the foliage, die and wither to be blown into the wind, to be compost once again

My soul runs with wolves …. as the shadow of the leader of the pack …….I am a wolf
..my body the withered foliage of a rose bush to be compost
…to feed the rose, and experience her tears brought forth by pruning