Fur Blanket
The soft brown fur lies heavy on my bead
Its warmth and comfort cannot be denied.
And yet to some it represents my guilt.
The holes so evident when it is flipped.
I tried my best to bring it little pain.
So, many times I failed to shoot my gun.
So many shots, for mercy, I let pass.
And yet that cold and biting winter morn,
When she stepped out into my line of sight
I pulled the trigger, glorious and proud.
My family, every one, did praise my kill.
They placed the knife into my frigged hands.
I bent into the task that I had earned.
I still recall the steam and smell of blood.
Far richer, that, than paltry words describe.
And yet, how far this grand fur fell from grace.
It now becomes a blanket on my bed
Where I and others sit for our own pleasure.
Talking about preserving nature fair.
Our hands upon the sterol dead remains.


ok here's where i get run off the forum. i am a hunter, i dont hunt for sport, i hunt for the meat.