THE SLING

Proud of their folly
They wear their gear
Hang their slings
In their pockets
And head to the forest
For the grand hunt
Hunger drives them
Not a hunger of the tummy
But of the soul
An emptiness threatening
To cave-in
Their prey-
So easy to corner
Though
The size of the sling matters
And so they parade
Waiting for the hunter
Desire drives them
Not a desire for survival
But desire for death
A taking away from this game
A desire for attrition
The prey dies in his hands
Crushing down by the might;
The essence of the sling
But the kill never fattens
Never satisfies
Never quenches
Neither heals
Nor blesses
And so the hunter fades
Languishing in his folly
His search, his pride
Roasting a prey that chokes
And strangles his very soul
That he so desires to save