The Savage Hunt

This savage hunt - my nature’s true quintessence, Insatiably strong thirsts I crave to quell, My being cascades through dark towards luminescence, while bloodlusts rage like crimson fires of hell. This rifle grows as part of me, I Feel thee, I see sensation through Whims of her sight, Her screaming, piercing howl may soon reveal me, Her ricochet, raw recoil live to spite. My mighty axe lives for he Needs the battle, His brute strength blindly dwarfs his swings precision, And no distinction branches men from cattle, Once sliced the air, no recall for decision. My dagger’s blade gleams light in every season, The Quickest and the Sharpest mortal arm, It’s actions smoothly guided within Reason, It’ sharpness hides beneath a sheath of charm. These armaments will guide my futile mission, Methodically I hunt and stalk my prey, My body will grow weak with time’s rendition, I’ve lost track of which night has turned to day. Guest of vast realms, naïve to source and forces, An eager peasant speaking through his poem, Quest whelms Platonic chariot’s two horses, A meager vagrant damned to seek and roam. Fresh tracks adorn a pallid icy cover, I smell its odor, glimpse to catch its sight, It sheds its skin to lure its latent lover, I hear its howls slice through the starry night. Hunt rages, I’m now ravaged by delusions, Illusive pray escapes again today, Perhaps I’m hunting dreams of my illusions, I lose myself in violence of dismay. Oh how I long to conquer this grand beast, My teeth will tear through raw and tender flesh, Then drink its blood to wash down this great feast, And with its corpse, for life I would enmesh. Of conquest, hunters of the past have swore, How savagely they fought to save their claim, But like a wave which sweeps a sandy shore, Their trophies vanished in a dying flame. But where reside great hunters of today? Where hide the passions which have fueled our stride? No longer does the tide of life convey, Our beings true essence bursting from inside. I am Man. And Truth is what I hunt, Illusive prey escapes me evermore, But I shall seek until my life wears gaunt, This savage hunt is what my life is for.

gene16180

My muse can be unseemly and nomadic although she fancies meter and good rhyme, her diligence and output are sporadic, and some may say she’s moving past her prime. At times she’s off consorting with the sages reflecting on existence, as it were, At...

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