The Bloodhound

The Bloodhound I hate my job. I am a work dog who can sniff out life and wrongdoing. I nip at the tired heels in shackles. I sniffed for the ensnarled and enslaved on barren southern soil. I sniff for vulnerable creatures. My bark is a hoarse moan for blood, captivity and death. It carries through the Spanish Moss, fields and swamps, a signal of fear for the panicked prey. I am ugly with much too much skin and could stand a face lift. I am well trained. Fed raw meat and beaten to obey. I know the tale of club and gun. I obey my master. Best of all, I am treated well for my capture. Best of all, I have tasted blood today. 7/11/19 Pick A Title, Vol 6 - Personification - Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh