The Hunt
Fire licks at skin,
Burning, baking.
Blood spatters in the snow,
Dripping, staining.
The winter night was so cold,
Biting, freezing.
Now the fire keeps me warm,
Breathing, thinking.
She made a sound when she died,
Crying, wheezing.
I made a sound when it touched me,
Screaming, yelping.
A fire that does not burn,
Doesn’t warm.
A hunt without violence,
Doesn’t feed.
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