28 Aug On the Crest of the Storm
thunderous dark skies
running through the autumn grass
into the dark wood
I am the hunted. He does not stop, will not stop. I hear my name above the building storm. He’s coming. I climb an ancient tree. It is warm. I draw from its strength and my knife hand quiets its tremble. I wait in the gloom, a wife and victim no longer.
My eyes narrow as I see him creeping through the brush, brandishing a hammer. There is no going back. It is quiet. Below me now, the smell of sweat and anger fill my mind with fear and something else. Hatred. There is no going back. It ends now. I drop from my perch and strike.
lightning casts dark spells
violent blood soaks maple leaves
no one walks away
NOTE: This poem also appears in Reader’s Carnival.