The Hunter is on the prowl this black and stormy night
where branches strike at roofs and windows,
and assaults the subconscious fears of those
who dare to listen to their wrath.
He feels their fear, he needs no light,
their scent a clear path to his offering, his prey,
who is defenseless and exposed, removed from the arms of his protector,
who is dwelling in the cloak of safety endowed onto those
who live in the spirit world, in essence and in presence.
His strike is deadly, through the forest into the heart,
the absolute silence deepening as he targets in on his prey,
seconds hover between life and death...
...it’s the arms of his protector that close ‘round him,
shielding him in her cloak, as the gold-tipped arrow hisses past
and comes to a quivering stop in the wall behind his heart.
It’s The Hunter who can’t miss, born of anger and in darkness,
but who’s earthly touch can’t feel, cannot breach in any way,
that binding link between two souls who in spirit are connected.