1.
Yarn-ornery, pounce,
His prey a ball
that won’t be good
for Christmas scarves.
Practice
makes perfect.
2.
Hunter, under leaves he waits.
He yearns for crackling
fire to dry rain’s drip-drops
on his neck, to drink
a toast to tangled blankets,
safe until tomorrow’s chase.
3.
The road is rubble
that throws up dust
and desperation
with each tiny step.
His hunt for truth
might be his last hunt ever.
4.
His muscles taut,
a leap to tree,
he makes the branch
before he is
the hunted,
not the hunter.
5.
Beauty is in the blood
in his mouth.
He screams at the moon,
a beast at its best,
his victory ripped
to pieces.
inspired by day 3 of the Garden of Neuro Poetry Challenge, and by the Garden of Neuro Poetry Workshop: The Caldralor
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