A silent walk, the weapon raised to aim,
A steady stalk, the beast is not aware,
The path of life intense, of death a game,
As hunter feels suspense upon the air.
The finger moves so soft, without a sound,
The bird remains aloft, while moving not.
The beast does fall, blood flowing from the wound,
It ends his all, in silence is he caught.
The hunter moves to end what life is left,
The muzzle’s grooves enjoy another spin,
If not was done before, the life is cleft,
The bird is at the door, to enter in.
Perhaps a beast does hold a life sublime,
At, best, it's worth alone, a meter’d rhyme.
© Jerusalemrising (Tyler O’Neil)
Written December 9, 2006