THE HUNT

It promised to be fun
The hunt
I dreamt of games
I dreamt of tames
I dreamt of antelopes swift and lame
I dreamt of moons
Leading with light
I dreamt of victory none the same
Then I threw my arrow
It hit the marrow
Looked like a narrow catch
As I waited for my antelope
If less, my rabbit
A lion came with vengeance
It looked at me
With eyes of the wounded
And held my soul captive
Branding my meat abominable
Gifting me to rot as slow as a sick snail
And thus it was
That the hunter turned hunted
Wishing for her own meat to end her misery
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2016

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