The Beast Hunts


Stalking through darkness

A feeling of encroaching predation

He seems to have a prowess

In checking for my sedation

Blinded by his appitite

His venomous fangs drip



Waiting to sink into nativity

He has no problem




"Playing" as he calls it


Hiding away in branches

One snap away from the beast

No matter how high

He's right there

He sits at the trunk, unmoving and unwaivering.

It's me it wants. 

No one else. 

I'm special to it.

Linked by blood that it can't untaste.

Readily devouring my spirit

his appetite threatening to spread

Suppressing all that I can be

Just so I can suffocate

He does so with such glee

shaking at my tree

Watching every fruit fall

But, he remains at the trunk

his mouth dripping in gall


Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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