Hunting Season

Dry bark breaks under my soles

Awakens my transic state

As the cold october air penetrates

Every pore and exposed skin

And I feel the rush of life

As I have taken another.

Oh, such beauty before me

Bathing in a crimson pool

In the mud lies my trophy

In the mud lies my pride, my jewel

And I feel the rush of triumph

Hunched over someone's brother.

They'll write about me surely

My face plastered on glorious halls

For it is not murder if the killing

Is marketed as humble conservation

And I feel the rush of life

A life I'll gladly smother.