The Huntsman

Who is he?

Silence in the woods today,

no happy rodents out to play,

the gray clouds hide the solemn light

and seem to beckon on the night.

It's back again, it's plain to see,

my eyes are fair enough to read.

The haunting itch behind my ear,

that makes me think the end is near.

To turn around and glance behind,

is to reduce me of sound mind,

This foreign glade of neutrality,

does not give me a sanctuary.

He's on my trail, of that I know,

the huntsman's stride, no greater foe,

his ceaseless chase I can't escape,

he knows the woods in which I wait.

He won't pursue you out of spite,

but does enjoy my futile flight,

his pay is more than enough for him

to catch my crimes and turn me in.

Although I have no victim here,

his slow justice is always near.

And though I may cry innocence,

he heeds me not, and is indifferent.

He's not alone, you can be sure

his hounds are near, in countless hordes.

They wear the faces of your friends,

and make you think your safe again,

but trust them not, and you'll survive

and soon will claim of what you're declined,

the huntsman's arm can only reach,

so long as you will let him teach

the children's ears,

so eager to hear,

so young in years,

 exempt from fear.

He'll teach them well,

their souls he'll sell,

and damn their spirits

to his own hell.

Not this forest, where I hide,

the ever-shining sterile lights,

the mucky pits of urban shame,

the forest from whence I once came.

Reviews

[A. H. Pinley]

Nice flow of words. A man on the run from the law in the middle of the woods, hoping and praying that night falls soon to conceal his movement into what he hopes is safer ground, towards his freedom. I can be completely wrong, or read into it the wrong way. Nice flow!