Waiting For Midnight
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Chris Andrews, Grade 11
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Poetry
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2008
The moon was full, the hour late,
A quarter to twelve, not long to wait.
A man sat alone in a dimly lit room, bound tightly to a chair.
His muscles twitched, Fight or Flight?
All he could think of now was fright.
For a moment quiet then, a bell tower chimed,
Upon the first ring the man shouted out
And by the third he was on the ground,
He writhed around still tightly bound.
By the sixth froth issued from his mouth,
His nails lengthened, his nose became a snout,
His body became covered in long and matted fur,
He struggled with the beast within and tried to think of Her.
A futile struggle, by the twelfth the transformation was complete.
He exploded from the chair.
He had to eat. Fresh Meat.