• ~Cursed~

    Run.
    Let me tell you,
    it has not,
    been fun.

    Legs pounding,
    the cement ground,
    willing to God,
    not to be found.

    Eyes,
    they follow,
    they scare,
    they’re hollow.

    Empty eyes,
    too many days,
    they scream,
    that I will pay.

    Years and years,
    I have run,
    save me the time,
    save me hun.

    Sweat stings,
    my back,
    hot sweat,
    nothing to lack.

    Muscles burn,
    I still yearn,
    to heal,
    to learn.

    Why chase me?
    Choose another!
    Why me?
    Why not another?

    The last night,
    I feel it,
    destiny collides,
    in this pit.

    This will either be,
    my last running day,
    or tonight,
    those eyes will pay.
    Someone calls,
    who is she,
    what does she want,
    with me?

    She has a message,
    grave,
    yet clear,
    be brave.

    I must turn,
    face the eyes,
    and drop,
    my disguise.

    Sweat stings,
    my thoughtful brow,
    why does it have to be,
    now?

    They know,
    they will soon,
    catch me,
    yes they croon.

    Why ask me,
    to turn myself in,
    let myself,
    be the pin?

    I will blind,
    those hollow,
    eyes,
    since they follow.

    Time,
    run to the park,
    its night,
    its dark.

    I hear,
    the breath,
    it is calling,
    for my death.

    Movement,
    out of,
    the corner of my eye,
    the eyes I love.


    Glint of silver,
    I turn wildly,
    run the word yelled,
    in my head however mildly.


    Weapon in,
    my desolate hand,
    useless knife,
    in this God-forsaken land.

    Chase the hunter,
    you useless prey,
    turn on those eyes,
    and they will pay.

    Dark figure,
    across the sand,
    long hooked knife,
    in his hand.

    We start to circle,
    slowly at first,
    hunger growling,
    this thing’s unending thirst.

    No one makes,
    the very first move,
    yet we hear,
    the sound of hooves.

    His head snaps toward,
    the unearthly sound,
    and I make,
    the very first bound.

    Knife catches throat,
    cloak falls off,
    falls to the sand,
    with the sound of a cough.

    I look into,
    those hollow eyes,
    filling my head,
    with all those whys.

    The face is,
    unexpected,
    I gasp,
    my relief rejected.

    It is a curse,
    now it is strung,
    carried on,
    the gong is wrung.

    I gouge my eyes,
    as the prey,
    becomes the hunter,
    if I may.