For the hunted

He sits and waits so quietly... he gloats.

Starring through the surreal haze of drained life.

Regarding his work in the sweet throes of

his passion, whimpers escaping cold lips.

Vixen was she- both adjective and noun.

Laying helplessly, freezing to the ground.

Liberty thieved from under her spent feet.

Although unknown to his awful trip,

the previously, sparkling white snow

became engulfed in a tinge of red rose.

Eagerly rushing to the somber sight.

He fell to his knees and was seized by fright.

The balk of his worry raced through his veins.

To call him drunk on himself would be apt.

The End

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