Lo, the Hunter.

The mirror belies my countenance

in the shadows of dusk's blessed blue indifference.

"Give us, this night our daily bread..." I whisper

as I search the gloom for the spoor of my prey.



Hark, she trembles at the sough of my approach,

unknowing as to it's source, intent or direction.

As I spy her through the darkness,

the old instincts take precedent,

and the pact is sealed.



My flight is silent and as I near my

chosen victim I take her by the mane

and jerk her roughly to me,

all the better to break her defenses

and dash her emotional guard apon

the rocks of my need.



She crumples in fright into my darkly awaiting embrace

Our gazes lock and she recognises her fate

in the windows of my soul.

A plea on her lips is silenced as I imbibe her essence

and rip the ruffle violently from her throat.



I read the buried need in the movements of her form

and stoke the fires of her startlement with

a barely purred growl and the proximity of

my craving for her flesh.



As she moves to break my embrace,

instead I grip a fleeting appendage and pull

her crashing to the carpet of loam that surrounds

this, our terminal universe.



As her form is prostrated before me, a gift, a sacrifice,

a hale offering to my hunger,

I pounce apon her and cover her with my being.

I sample her skin with nibbling bites

and probe her varied defenses with my fingers.



The ancient wound opens to my touch

and begins to weep as the inevitable conclusion draws near.

As I sense her aproach to the edges of sanity,

I heft my weapon from it's hiding place,

a thick and blunt instrument I have grown to know,

And gently tease her with it's knowlege.



And as the exquisite moment,

caught as if in a loop of infinate grace,

draws to a close, I plunge this pugel home

to the hilt - and the moment is past.



Manic edacity is my name,

I can no longer think, nor postulate

on her fate or that of my own.

Animal need drives me now.

And it is a terrible thing in it's intensity and audacity.



I plunge the weapon again and again,

through the ancient wound which now is torpid

and trembling at the force of my assualt.

She screams my name and it fuels

this terrible hunger to fever pitch.



The final barrier splits and gives way.

A flood of heat and moist power surges through us both,

inundating us, taking us and twisting us with it's finallity.



Her soul and essence is mine,

a keepsake for eternity in the palm of my hand.

And just as the spirit leaves her eyes...

In this last moment of consciousness ...



...



...



She kisses me gently a final time,

professes her eternal love of me,

and asks me to wake her at 6 for work.



© Lord_Jereth - April 13, 2003