The Hunt

The great game is who I am allowed to be the game is my name and the only way, time flies by without the look of death in a single eye. What is this "Mad world" men put their selves into, when the great game is out of their way in the woods, standing far away? I do not wish to know, for only the snow, can mask the intend glow of foot prints left for me to know, which leads to death and the other home. I'm the game, the elk, mighty and young, being hunted by you, the great game attendee. The game just begun as you take that hat place on you head, grabbed your bag and load your gun.