In the shadowed woods where whispers dwell,
The hunter prowls, a silent knell.
With bow in hand, eyes sharp and keen,
He stalks the stag, unseen, serene.
The forest breathes a heavy sigh,
As stars above adorn the sky.
The hunter’s heart beats like a drum,
A symphony of death to come.
But in this tale, the lines are blurred,
The prey has watched, the prey has learned.
The stag, it seems, knows tricks untold,
Within its eyes, a fire bold.
The hunter’s steps, once soft as moss,
Now crackle leaves like albatross.
The stag, it waits behind the pine,
Its antlers set, its eyes malign.
A twist of fate, a clever ruse,
The hunter’s path, the stag did choose.
With every step, the man draws near,
To the trap set by his own fear.
The woods grow tight, the air grows thick,
The hunter’s light, a dying wick.
He feels the eyes that watch him back,
A spectral gaze, a midnight black.
The hunted now, he feels the dread,
Of ghostly antlers at his head.
The stag, a specter in the night,
Has turned the hunt into a fright.
The hunter’s dreams, once filled with glory,
Now host a different, darker story.
A nightmare where the trees conspire,
To feed the flames of his own pyre.
So let this be a lesson clear,
To those who let their hubris steer.
The woods are old, the woods are wise,
And in their depths, the hunter lies.
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