She stands above her prey,
Under the evening sun,
Watching its every move,
To ensure it doesn’t run.
She licks her lips in the cold,
While hooves melt in the snow,
Quietly she shifts her weight,
As she plucks her bow.
And as the night unfolds,
The creature bellows, loud,
White is splashed with red,
Yet the Huntress makes no sound.
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My Thoughts on the World and My Writing
The content of this journal can range from passing thoughts in the style of stream of conciousness to intense stories, poetries, and prose.
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Guardian of Agape
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