The Hunt

Every day it is the same,
A wheel of monotonous days turns into weeks,
A never ending institution of routine,
And a mixture of the mundane,
A cardboard cutout of a textbook sight,
Rays beaming as a phoenix's fiery flight,
Afternoons washed away by darkness in a woeful blunder,
Time chips away like an axe beating with murderous thunder,
Lavish landscapes bleed with colors all around,
Yet all is deadly silent underneath the sound,
A dinner awaits a predator stalking its unknowing prey,
The face of death permeates the pungent scent of decay,
For little do you know, the reaper camps at your soul's very door,
Hopelessness chills out of every pore,
Recognition of danger met with fear to investigate,
However, once the victim understands it's far too late,
A succulent bite proceeds to clarify the heinous intent,
The outer flesh becomes dish of ravishing torment,
A low and guttural growl purrs with content,
Darkness is singing in a fervent lament,
Satisfaction beckons a pursuit to enthrall,
This is the end, the final curtain call.

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