The Hunt

In the forest comes near, a hunter, to a deer.
The hunter admires its grace, its beauty, but fears,
That the beauty will flee, as if a girl from a mouse.
Or that she senses him, and feels annoyed, as if the hunter was a louse.

The hunter loves the deer and seeks what he gives in return,
Before he strings his bow and fires past the ferns
To strike the deer, straight through the heart,
And in turn the arrow goes through his own, which will slowly fall apart.

When he sees the deer his heart beats faster
Sweat drips from his palms, as from a spoon, does batter,
And his face begins to turn the color of the sunrise,
Reflecting her beauty, the sun only tries.

But then his throat closes he cringes,
And  every shot, the hunter misses.
Yet it is so beautiful, the deer.
Never getting it, the hunter drops a tear.