Not bad for two mins of actual thought.
Death for thee.
Sorrow underneath the mask of confidence.
Darkness under the skin of his weak flesh.
The knife creeps on his nerves like a mother's hand on her child.
The glimmer of steel.
The taste of carbon on his tongue.
Fighting the urge to relinquish his hopelessness on another.
Transference of himself on a poor prey's flesh.
Eyes in the dark shine on him.
Being watched.
Being stalked.
Being adored
Admired.
Oh hollow house of bones.
Strapped.
Bounded.
Stripped of your dignity.
Naked to the world.
To yourself.
To the pleasure of the hunt.
The pleasure of the stalk.
The delight of the kill.
The nothingness.
The peace.
Never ending.
You're the hunted.
Run rabbit.
Run.