I can feel the hunter coming around the bend.
The desert has become his mind and numbers, like grains of sand count his moments.
He is coming for me.
My foe, my counter. Desert numbers. Desert time. Desert love.
My hunter is now seeking me. Prey.
It is my babe. My dream. My passions. My Father. My husband. My immortal.
The hunter is held by my mother, the soft solace of acceptance.
The desert now covets my restless mind and everyday I am drawn to the countless sands.
Everyday I feel the grains of heat slip between my fingers.
He has come now for me.
I am hunted by the hunter. I am prey to the preyed.
Tis my childe I will lay for. Tis my childe that hunts me.
My blood will spill upon the desert floor. I will see it done.
It is my babe. Who will pray upon the sands.
My one. My all. Who hunts me like a desert wolf.
I lay. I bow to you.
My son. My one. My all.
-For Hunter Robert Clark.