I hear the hunter inside me sneak up
after your flesh, for something of so little worth…
Who would want it but me
against the demise
of your grace and doe eyes?
You hide behind the tree trunks;
I follow on your trail, but
bending, I find no trace of your hoofs,
except for fragile thoughts
scattered on paper.
You got away once more,
Poetry, my Bambi!
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