To the Huntress

(What will you do, girl, when there's no man alive?
Would you cease to exist just because Adam's never born?
You never were a child of God anyway, let it die.)

And so it started out with an echo, winds mocking, revenge
reverberating through the very vein of your veins, running
faster until breath became precious, time running out
of time, almost as fast as a cheetah tearing its skin
to branches, leaving blazing blots all throughout the night.

But you weren't done, worn by carnivore skin, almost
too ancient to believe in the magic of humans, too dependent
of the sky, you couldn't bat your lashes to remind yourself
that dreams and stars weren't related, as much
as an impala's skin could be relative to a lion's: both
prey and predator - almost golden when you sharpen
your eyes to the tool of your desire, like an arrow
to the heart, narrowing the distance
between your desperate fangs
and its next victim.

12-03-2013
11:57 PM