The lock was now picked,
He crept down the hall,
The clock ticked and ticked,
Dead of night crawled.
Spindles of hate unwound in his head,
He cared not about his life,
As he neared the first hunter's bed,
He slit the hunter's throat with the knife.
He was sick of running,
Everyday was a struggle,
So he'd whipped up a plan quite cunning,
Track, kill and burn the house to rubble.
He tiptoed to the next room,
The hunter sleeping and dreaming,
Unknown to the certain doom,
Dying with not one scream.
The last hunter, however, was behind him,
Stabbing his arm,
Blood rolling down the limb,
Ignoring pain, he drove the knife through the hunter's chest, causing harm.
With them all dead,
A smile escaped from his face,
His shirt arm stained red,
Setting the house alight and ran from the place.
Author Notes: Hope you enjoyed this poem (this is the first one I've posted on this site)