Prince Of The Undergrowth
A poem
A poem
Shadows twist and contort
under the pale moon’s haunting gaze.
The woodlands hold their breath,
branches creaking like arthritic fingers.
A twig snaps underfoot,
the only warning before molten eyes bore into you
from the blackest thicket.
The jaguar emerges,
a liquid spectre of rippling muscle and fangs
that glisten like ivory daggers.
Its obsidian coat drinks in the night,
absorbing every feeble moonbeam.
Only those piercing orbs remain,
two pale flames burning from the demon’s visage.
With a primordial grace, it slinks ever closer,
each footfall utterly silent
on the detritus-laden earth.
You are the prey now,
transfixed by that unblinking stare.
The night cloaks your primal terror
in a silken shroud
as death encircles on vice-like padded paws.
In the spell of this transcendent predator,
your mind reduces to the most visceral existence.
Every ragged breath feels like your last
as the ancient, remorseless hunger closing in.
The beast’s low, guttural growl
speaks of a ferocity
beyond the comprehension of civilized souls.
Run, perhaps? Foolish notion,
you are the defenceless trespasser here.
This is his eternal domain,
and the moon itself seems to favour
its ruthless reign over the shadows.
Surrender to your fleeting mortality
lest this alpha incarnate of sublime savagery
rend the life from your trembling husk.
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