It was old, and falling apart,
O when, or where did this ever start?
The ends were fraying, never done,
the color wasn't even one.

The cloak was patched, with strained seams,
of green, and yellow, and red and cream.
The ends were hemmed awkwardly together,
again, again, again and another.

It somehow reminded me of home before,
with it's sacks of potatoes in the kitchen lore.
It was coarse, like sack cloth with the dust,
yet still, keep it, he must.

Each patch held a story, a hole he tried to cover,
all he wanted to do, can't and wished forever.
He had to wear the stigma carried by lycanthropy,
just as he had to wear this cloak, it should be.

How many times had he pricked his finger
with that needle, the fine devil's doer.
how many times did the moon, destroyer
wreck what he had so carefully put back together?