- Misc. Poems
The Hunter
The frigid stench of death
Fills the air,
Where will it surface?
Could be anywhere.
It stalks it's prey,
Like a veteran hunter,
While we, unknowingly,
Enjoy our saunter.
At any moment,
His arrow could fly true
Which of course would mean,
That your life is through.
Must we live our lives,
In constant fear?
Knowing as each second passes,
The Hunter draws near.