hunted

A poem of being yourself and yet still being ridiculed by those who don't accept you.

wake of morning is night revealing
them as they drag the waters to find
the sleepless targets, ‘deserving resolution.’

whisk of furry tails and droll escapes,
they lay the rifles on the ground, in broad-
brazenly showing… unparallel…
pointing down so as ‘to miss’
but still seize fear while
terrified, they glanced aside
with ‘misfire’ engendering their grins.

nearly dawn, yet not ignoble. never
lowering heads and within them change,
nor asking sympathy with open hands.
never sewing parted lips for one less glance.

but, by morning, the corpse they know
holds up with interlaced fingers a rose,
which could not find a separate path to avoid desiccation.