Through the scope I waver
I’m in flow, the dance starts
The mute hunter savours
That his prey cannot dart
But goes about his way
Without suspicion’s dawn
No chance even to pray
In my twitch his Fate’s drawn
Stalking through the lens
Through valleys, through glens
When the time is ripe
I earn all my stripes
Slow as through water
Breath waits post-slaughter
My finger twitches
The trigger itches


The poetry is now over and nothing remains
Just death and his judicious prime supersede in this slapstick tragedy without rhythm or rhyme

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