senses trespass where they will;
killing the smaller, the weaker, and the rolling in my gut,
but attaching no moral reckoning.
Singing to the moon, because she, too, is alone,
bone and blood keep body and soul together
whether my mark or your boundary approve;
moving, always closer, as the moon reflects in my eyes and off the barrel of your rifle, tracking each other, unpitying and relentless.
A chained rhyme for Sunday Mini-Challenge at Real Toads, hosted this time by my dear friend Hedgewitch.