Hunted
It is hunting season and I must be the deer
My huntsmen finds me and shoots without fear
It hits but does not hurt and I do not die
The reason of this I’m not sure why
I fall from shock but it’s a soft landing
Looking up to see my huntsman standing
Right above me with a smirk on his face
It’s disgusting yet majestic, and I just want a taste
For my huntsman is not evil nor thinks of hunting as a game
In search of his true love of whom has my name
👁 1💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.
Log in to leave a comment.