The rift

A poem.


1. The Rift

Quick feet

on the cold crusted dirt

Sun's heat

the sweat 'neath my shirt


I am the hunter

but he's not the hunted

The quarry's a runner

my feet often stutter


There's only so much

in a wood paneled room

That a man can apply

at winter's nigh doom


Breathe in

at stomach's tarve

Sky's grin

the land sees me starve


I am the son

but I can't be my father

His bow sang like thunder

but I'm just a thinker


The options are few

of what learned men do

When the quarry's a runner

but poetry mutter

at eye's last flutter.

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