The Hunting of The Beast

Late night... Forest deep... A fog so thick, it radiates a morbid heat... A fools guild, of men with sharp blades of various size. The trees consume, A troubled moon, Pale tears guided, Impending doom. Wicked laughter, fills the air, There are worse things, Then that which are created up here. Shadows dance around the trees. A ritual to capture weak souls. And the fools who were silenced by curiosity. The idiots tricked by this places fools gold. A loud cry, Men come upon him like the dark. He is chained, Mounted, and wounded, Save for one glassy eye... which looks upon the wicked, distorted faces with something like sorrow. A wise beast, But to them, Just a monster with a savage brain... To darkness, a troubled far away. Circus animal, Prodded to give forth wounded cry... There is no passionate anger here... Just a lonely creature, Living a tortured life... Not a man woman or child in the crowd cares enough to wonder why, Great tears fall from the beasts eyes while the "men" watch on in cruel delight. Midnight, The beast can no longer sleep... Stars dot the sky, just out of reach... Lays great head on cool dry earth... Closes eyes, Spread great snarling lips, Until he no longer breathes... A magnificent creature, A miracle of the earth... Closes his eyes and sleeps... And goes where the monsters, Can no longer hunt the beast. DNB