The Circle

Ron Koppelberger

The Circle

Rationed by burdens of reflection and the omission of pure recollection the secret was a tangled cleaving taboo, a dawn of rare breed, a velocity of ragged union. The sun he thought, the sun. Thrilled in spears of glory and hope, the sun. The embracing alliance and divinity of the fates called in perfect harmony.
He flexed his chapped hands, seeing, seeing the long nails and the growth of fur covering his hands, his paws, his body. Contracted by the skeletons of misery and the faith of crowns that spoke of allure, allure to the darkest realms of shadow and to the wont of seas in saffron gold. Ancient old gardens of naked passion and angels in flight.
He saw the circle of bloodied stones in a dream and the gathering of men. A fracture in the gloss of humanity, the aberration, men in delirium unsatisfied with the gift of wheat, of saffron and light, men of doubtless conviction, nevertheless hell and sin following. He saw the revelation of his purpose. He saw them in his dreams and nightmares, in evening twilight hunts and the glow of the full moon. They waited for the third coming of Eden, their calling, the advent of their damnation.
The stones, guarded by endless waves of wheat, the garden, the blessing, the spell of patience. The men would open the seal and the old garden would burn, and the lycanthrope would sense the wont of mortals in trespass. The stones, the palace of blood and dust, waiting for the blood rush of sacrifice. They would spill blood there, in the circle of rock and granite and the wolf would scream, scream for the angels to champion the secret place and the garden.
The men would destroy the saffron conclave, in their gathering of destruction, hate and greed……unto the advent of the last, the conflict between good and evil, war and eternal blessings.
Falling to his hands, changing he ran toward the endless eternal wheat. Perhaps a wolf can peruse the world he thought, perhaps.