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6 August, 2012

In hunter’s garb he prowls through the leaves,

   hat pulled low,

   eyes searching the ground for signs of the invading beast.


This is no sport.

He grips his weapon with hate whitened knuckles,

      predator’s eyes squinting for a tell tale and,

         seeing a slight red blush where there should be none,

      carefully pulls aside the leaves which obscure his prey —

         stabs and rips with weapon and bare hands —

            ends the life of one more

 damned Spurge!



From → Stories & Poetry

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