The Hunted

In the Moment

of my death,
I ponder on things left behind.
I wonder where it is I shall go.

The arrow pierces lightly.
That part I pay no mind.
It is the force of will leaving me.

I saw him, too, the elegantly clad
man in a mirrored wind.
He smelled of tiresome hunger.

He was weary then. Perhaps too thin.
His fragile bones climbed
up through his sinew.

I shall remember none of this.
My body will become rigidly defined
as I deliquesce into mud.

I am more than I once was.
My flesh is your flesh refined.
My blood is your blood.

We are consanguineous.
You eat of yourself.

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