hunters

 

Hunters

I've rented a room littered with books 

locked myself in to write myself out.

Out among the living and I, the walking dead.

stinking of uncertainty; insecurities.

going blind to blend in.

looking everywhere except right in front of me;

the camouflaged hunters

rifles steadied at the hint of an unsteadied mind.

I sound my alarm and hope

and awaken a sleepwalker from dreams

where our worlds will meet.

Shots fired awaken a jumpy stranger

as blood soaked words spill and land on my lips.

“What can you tell me about time?”

but the answer too late 

still hangs in the air.

“It isn't here” 

the sleepwalker's gone before I return

and the hunters take aim

as the answer takes me 

back to this place

where I bleed again and again