Short Stories & Poetry
The Hunt
Alone, taking measure of their rhythm
I watch through the meat
An ocean’s tide, swirling, churning,
Writhing, to primordial beat
Atmosphere of heat and innuendoes
Pheromones and sweat in electric air
All playing, each their own secret game
In hopes to ensnare
To entrance, beguile, and bewitch,
Preening and strutting do they
Never knowing that while they pursue
That they are also the prey
Engaged with themselves, they prey on themselves,
Hearts up for pain’s finality
In a paradoxical, myopic, struggle
For the savior from their own banality
For existence to have purpose
The rush of endorphin’s thrill
For the promise of passion they go
Willingly, desiringly, to be tonight’s kill
Loneliness drives them to dangerous sport
Fear breeds within every fiber and cell
Waiting in hopeless dreams
To escape from their hell
And those that sit alone, on the side
Pitiful are the saddest of all
So desperately yearning for acceptance
They will answer any call
To compromise for the illusion love
The silent cries can be heard
A soul to had, bought, an enslaved
Harken to thee, the wolf has been stirred
And trepidly hoping this is the one
The stranger is followed, outside, though the door
Into nights terror’s embrace and
One other’s light is no more
The news announces the sad fate
I turn off the TV
And in the blacked iridescent screen
See only a shadow, a shadow of me.
Theresa
