The hunted

The forest is
an inhospitable place
if your alone
when the storm blows
down upon you
with a real unholy moan
tis then the wily hunters
the wolves are on the prowl
tis then the lousy hunter
the creature from the bowel
of some far off sick troll
clad in greenish camouflage
with a rifle in his hand
shivering inside
himself he can
hardly stand
the forest rocks
in awe
at what it sees
and feels
the roar
of trees dancing
and fleeing at the
of an apex male
on the merry trail
a hungry pack, all white
grasping at the jaws of hell
riding storms of rain
the hunter man
his rifle cocked
but all of that in vain
for the hunted stormed
his hideaway
and for once they cut him down
and chewed upon his body
as in his blood they drown
for once a pack was wary
the storm had taken heed
the hunter took the full force
and had to just concede
defeat they ate him, all of him
crunched on his bones and drank
the blood he’d stored for many a year
into his skin, they sank
their teeth lets hope a lesson
is taught to those who try
their hands at hunting packs of wolves
for if they nod off, they die

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