New Poem

The owl is deaf, or he will not hear<br><br>the song I sing of murder.<br><br>Of shadows crept into my dreams<br><br>and the blood I taste from strangers.<br><br>In the night, I hunt, though I know<br><br>it only makes things worse. But still<br><br>I follow my tracks, my heart racing<br><br>like a hare with the threat of death.<br><br>And when I awake sweating,<br><br>I wish the sun would devour me.<br><br>But the owl is deaf, or he will not hear<br><br>the song I sing of murder.