A withering canvas of prophetic dreams, contrasted by cooling anticipation seeping onto foreign ground.

Shriek from the bottom of your lungs; what I seek echoes beacon-like, left and right, rippling out of the epicentre, a vulnerable comfort zone makes itself known. Is your call a directive? Shall I compare thy plight to a bloodshot rose? Call and response, as taught by societal figures grasping at traces of philosophical values in dire need of subhuman decipherment, seems embedded within human nature, leaking to infiltrate all otherworldly life deserving of intellectual development. Your indefinite fate transcends the unlit paths, yet this lakeside forest adventure alone promised so much more; skirting puddle after puddle, simply postponing the unavoidable misstep by straddling the myriad of quagmires persistent despite the loitering silvery mist's imperceptible dissipation. Right, left, over fallen trunks, under scarce canopies. Lain upon sodden sludge subject to recurrent saturation, your attire whispers polygonal fragments of memories, ideas, dreams past and present, only to choke when forced into consequential decision.

I open my eyes and let them feed on yours, unhuman power carries, tears apart your jaws.

Shattered twigs resemble a beaten track, seldom traversed for visitors' unwarranted hesitance. Perhaps this sanction is your reward for such progress! Perhaps ironic compensation for the biological erasure of ten-some years of archived experiences as survival of the fittest commences, just another beautiful story undergoing methodical culmination.
So rasps a faint moan, We could meet where fire simmers upon picturesque aqua planes, blue glint morphing into citric hues wavering atop each face. What is that phrase I often hear of your kind? “So close but yet so far", correct? 
One's dissocialised existential awareness cannot resist bemusement at the extent of convenient metaphors for your ultimate journey. Inadequate servility to a materialistic public whose predetermined subsistence boosted you this far remains an eternal tormentor, conformity composition unsatisfied in spite of unassuming futility.
Your eyes will never witness the phenomenal convoluted jungle so unfalteringly endorsed by adults, but who knows the potential of many thousands of unique routes laid unto your elusive spirit?

A curse, a gift we cannot lift, shines when the sunset shifts…

My dear, please mind that abstract consideration deserves minimal affliction. Whichever intricate network of decisions brought you literally stumbling onto this earthen pasture, however your wakefulness terminates within my pestilent claws; reserve some precious time solely to reflect on the unadulterated magnificence of fragmented magenta, a gorgeous spectrum mirrored on the water's edge where thin, rich crimson trickles fuse with the cerulean expanse by which your vessel is effortlessly propped.

Present my heart and let it bleed on yours; an unwilling sacrifice worthy of the cause.

How very arduous to tug the steering wheel of your ambition, futile since you set foot on this fateful forked bushtrack. Loomed over by yours truly, gazing to the cold, bright sphere protruding from a twinkling panorama fully enveloped by a blanket of nothingness – at least, as apparent to the restraints of your mortal eyesight. Aureoles tremor, metaphysical triangles mutating into glitches. Ironic, is it not, that your depth perception blurs separation of what is within reach and what is simply a glimmer of hope, inaccessibly dangled far above treetops illuminated by significant effulgence?

Before the transformation takes, bloodlust reigns, through flesh I rake to gloss the pains.

Rarely do I encounter one whose circumstances discard the being in this locale so unfamiliar yet deeply entrenched within your previously functional grey matter. It seems somewhat a shame to be handfed life, especially sentience with grand potential lurking undercover, patiently awaiting its natural spiritual unveiling at an undefined stage cementing the higher timeline. Contradictorily, I am grateful for raw energy oozing from your perforated throat to mine, the ascended superior justly corralling territory encroachment fees. Gently cradling your skull between my fangs is presumed a considerate obligation amidst gory artwork of an abstract minimalist; stagnant dignity preserved for the sake of loved ones' composure, were their inadvertent fate ever to coincide, as if the book of life's dictator eventually succumbed to self-indulgent tyrannical fervour, deceitfully guiding said relatives into my realm.

Scarlet heart post-change, paranormal body strange, god how I crave it.

Leap across the river rather than hobble downstream in search of Schrodinger's bridge; this is the bad ending. This is the correct ending. This opportunity is entirely vulnerable to consumption by an ambitionless soul; as always, indefinite future allows hypotheses that falling prey to some unsuspicious feral has forever been your fate. No guardian angel dares unveil itself, let alone a Lightbringer intending to guide your footsteps in ethereal posthumous advancement. That which is not truly an end to a means; reincarnation, transcension, whatever our stage is labelled, you have arrived at the destination to which superficial predisposition is simultaneously forthcoming yet unpredictable.
Join the innumerable spiritual ranks serving as my nourishment. Through resplendent galaxies you soar while the globe spins tirelessly and I must advance towards my next prey. Is this the end, or the beginning?

…so yeah, we're werewolves.