The hunter rebels,
Her caring hands soothe...
The prey
Stops its prayers,
Written as poems,
On paper wrinkled
Cashew and indigo ink.
Her fragrance floats
Across my pages
From second-hand bookstores.
She's a metaphor as deep
As a child reading poems
With rose-tinted glasses.
A mystery that envelops
An undead village surrounded by mist
In the dark.
I stare.
Stand.
Watch.
Her lone survivor.
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