The hunting party
With time he recreates it,
reshapes the order of things,
the sell-out, the hunting party,
first shots & the fallout.
Responsibility is too big a word.
He ties his actions into a ball,
strands to deep to unravel,
sticks them to the post.
Along this pitch-black road,
he cares not how he came to it.
He spreads the word far,
this one-sided filament,
poison leaking from his hands.
The gloves no longer fit.
It’s in his breath now,
pours wherever he goes.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, February 10, 2021
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