Venison Manna

Through Plexiglas and skeletal bars

the red orb of the sun descends
as twilight fades into the night
the last of the sun’s rays span out…
Tomorrow we resume the fight
and tomorrow night depends
on who can inflict the kindest scars.

I dream of you, my worthy foe,

and look forward to the combat sport
that this mysterious life’s become…
and you now carry a mystery child!
We both march to a victor’s drum
but to keep the story short
I’m now the archer; you’re the doe.

It’s Christmas Eve again, my love,

as gifts await the coming dawn.
This phase of life behind me then
and oh! the wait has cost me so…
Yet still I work my poet’s pen
to capture you, my precious fawn!
My venison manna from above.

k.g.