Mad, Bad, Sad

roe-deer-1396281_960_720

A one syllable word poem (  I hope).

The call of the wild
is like death in the night.
Bleak shots ring out
in the air full with howls
let loose like doves,
but it soaks them up,

for there is no peace
as those with warm blood
and soft eyes,
have their blood spilt on lush
blades that in sun’s light
are a pea green sea
of frills, which turn to black
laced sport ‘s barbs of dried kin
on torn rags –

grass is stiff from blood rage,
tears hide stains
on sods of red earth, damp
with the id’s
drip of sweat and hot shells
strewn – a young fawn’s
cry is mute.

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