Thursday, September 20, 2012

The Hunted Hunter

by CWK

Being one who for life yearns --
imagine the surprise in my eyes,
when at first I learned
that I was being hunted and stalked
like a senseless beast.
Imagine my alarm, my grief.
Everywhere I walked
cross-hairs were 'pon me trained,
in malice maintained,
with hardly a second of rest or relief.

I was hunted with prejudice extreme:
pondered like a faceless theme.
Regarded, a curiosity, unrare.
Hunted here, and there:
hunted everywhere.
I would not say that I was scared,
but I grew wary.
And I it behooved me
to become aware, very aware.

Being one who for life yearns --
I was startled when first I learned
that with every step and breath
I was hunted: hunted, by Death.

Hence, I've made a grave decision:
I will not recline with passive permission.
Being pursued by a Reaper Grim,
I will not sit and wait for him.
Being hunted, I will a hunter be,
and hunt him who hunts me.

Some men welcome the grave;
others demur to be saved.
Not I.
If I am hunted by death,
then death I will hunt in reply.
I will not go quietly into night;
I will not collapse at the last with rust.
I will chase my pursuer in the night,
and across the final dawn.
And he, or I, or both of us
will feel the steel of sword drawn.

I may, alas, a sporting repast, die.
Thence, come to final, fateful, demise.
I may fade like wet ink on a page.
-- but not before Death feels my rage.

Then, even when overtaken,
I will not be shaken.
Even then, I've not said my peace.
I will not lie forever in hallow ground;
I'll be back around.
At the resurrection of the righteous,
I will rise.
Death, you are strong, and grave, and grim,
-- but you cannot hold him
who holds me!
On that day, I will shout aloud:
"Death where is your victory!?
O, Death, be not proud."

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