Yawps and Howls

There is a sluice gate onto my heart;
jets of blood and poems are arrested by it.
And when the wolfish poet inside me howls,
the bolts of the sluice gate are tested for their strength.
Who is to blame for the raucous yawps?
Nobody, but you.
Yes, you, the half hidden shadow standing beside a tree.
Aren't you the shadow from that evening,
chasing me ever since.
Come on,
insinuate yourself for the words dripping from my tongue.
You won't do it, isn't it?
Come out of your shell.
Here take it, take the silver bowl.
Collect what drips from my mouth,
my marrow and sinews were waiting forever,
to spout when you're no longer a shadow.
My tracks are bloody,
your half hidden stare from the tree
has been stabbing me.
Through the day, it burns,
you burn me.
and through the night, you stab.
Silence, I need your attention.
Do you hear that?
The sound of my blood gushing,
escaping between the gravels.
Someday, when some other mortal passes that path
through the woods,
he will see the blood stains,
hear the poetic echoes caged by the trees.