The deer was shot.
The bullet on spot.
The wound bled.
The boy was
dead.
The deer was shot.
It was a part of a plot.
You cut the knot.
You hit the slot.
You leave
the deer;
the boy
in need.
You leave
the deer
until it
rots.
-The boy,
H I R A Y A.
YOU ARE READING
1:11
PoetryBetween sunsets and sunrises are a bunch of poems that may mean nothing or may mean everything. Between sunsets and sunrises I am not afraid of the dark, I am fond of it. Part II of The Zeros. Made it to the wattys shortlist!
