Below is the poem entitled He Walks No More which was written by poet
Needles. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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He walks the moonlit moor,
With eyes all aglow,
Hunting down his next victim,
Bringing death unto us all.
His ears are perked up,
Listening to the sounds,
That fill the night sky,
From the bats to faint footsteps,
And horses neighing in the distance.
He makes his way through the woods,
Seeing the faint lights of the streetlamps,
Showering light upon a figure,
Huddled beneath it's glow.
He licks his lips,
Tasting the fresh blood that will soon,
Fill his slathering jaws,
The tender flesh tearing in his teeth,
The high shrill screams echoing into the night,
That will end in bitter silence.
Moving through the woods,
Keeping his eyes plastered to the figure,
Knowing if he looks away for a moment,
His victim may flee without a warning,
And thus he may be vulnerable to the hunter.
For aeons he's wandered the world,
From Japan to the Polynesian Islands,
And now the US is where he resides,
Feasting on the aristocratic flesh,
Of prominent families.
He stops at the edge,
Turning his head,
Looking for any that may stop him.
Nothing but the figure seems to haunt the night,
Beneath the fading streetlight.
Thrusting himself out, he runs,
Forcefully through the thickened night,
Towards the careless human,
Claws stretched out before him,
With blood-lust burning within his eyes.
Suddenly he stops and lunges,
Landing on top of the person,
And begins ripping at their throat,
Realizing there is no blood,
Is when he feels a sharp pain in his side,
And drops to the ground.
His yellow eyes look about,
And see a figure in the dark,
Smoke fills the air around it,
It's the hunter he fears,
He tries to scramble to his feet,
But is brought down by another piercing pain.
The figure moves closer,
A barrel of a gun comes sliding into the light,
Followed by the figure wearing dark clothes,
Walking slowly through the night,
Gun pointing down at the beast,
That lay wounded before him.
He musters up enough strength,
To lift his heavy body,
And tries to lunge,
Is the last thing his ears register.