Again, I'm generally not a poetry writer. No longer. This is another poem that I deemed "okay" enough to share.

Going Hunting

Pools of blood staining the autumn ground,
Unspoken words: "Good work!"
when the deed is done.
An empty shell,
-still warm-
With eyes of shimmering gold
-frozen-
Fixed upon the parting heavens,
And weeping of dry tears.