As the moon grows dark
and the blood runs thin
the beast throws his bark
and out comes with in
tears that flow freely.
Tears of hurting pain.
Tears that flow meerly
to dry up in vain.

As the moon starts to bleed
and the stars fade
the beast begins to feed
on creations not made,
hope that ran to nothing,
thoughts that drowned in death.
The beast is now hunting,
lurking in the cold breath.

As the moon grows old
the beast does the same.
His body grows cold
and he dies with no name.