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He had been seven, maybe eight
deep into forest-covered hills
a friend, cold metal clutched to chest
when father taught about the line
drawn separating men from those he calls his game
"the deer runs, thinking to escape is to live evermore
we know that he is wrong,
the chase continues on,
and one day he will fail
his meat will meet teeth while his teeth meet dust."
the buck didn't see them, had no chance
his bulky body is extracted from the muck
the body smells like all dead bodies must
he's still warm to the touch
for the first few hours of the walk
the bucks eyes glaze and rot
within days they will be gone
but will will never know
his life was lived eternal and young
the boy looks on, already grown.
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