Hunter – A.P. Christopher

Set upon a mantle, under wax, within a bowl
The last remaining fragment of the heart the hunter stole
Where quandary and question bled together on a scroll
He inked in blood and ashen dust
Using a quill he dipped in rust
Searching the letters like a loop that he assumed he could control

Desolation danced within the letters neath the pen
Like echoes of tomorrow with the smirk of never when
Wearing all the garments that alluded to a then
That never matched the page before
As if a work of faded lore
Was every memory he set when’ere he read them back again

Yet, beneath the lacquer, that was but a sobriquet
For the cold conditions and the loss of yesterday,
Heard he, still, the heart, as if wasn’t dead and gray,
As if a clock with phantom gears
That played a chime nobody hears
And told a time that he desired, on a lens with no display

So, in supplication, by a moon and setting sun
Labors left, unraveled he, by what he hadn’t done
Pressing lips to wax that held a heart that beat for none
Upon a mantle and he wept
For knowing never why he kept
The dead reminder of the day that he became the thing he never could become.

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