Hunter and h(a)unted


I am the maker of what I see

(Or so I’ve heard)

While the eyelids flicker in the night

-the longest night of the year-

Building up the story

A storehouse of scenes.

Hidden in the cracks of my sleep


Yearn to taste me

And feed upon it with hunger.

You hide beneath every door

Of every dream.

I open them.


Same story goes in different scripts.

As you devour,

One body feeds the other

A numb digestion of a ghostly presence.

A hollow saturation 

Of insatiable hunger

Of the haunted hunter.


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