If I could redo my life,
I wouldn’t change a lot.
Because I’m just one more person
In this emourmous plot.

And in my plot I’m the author,
So I pick and I choose what I want.
But in someone else’s story,
I’m only the hunter who doesn’t hunt.

In this plot the prey is the hunter,
For that is the way of the game.
And I am the hunted hunter,
That’s frightened, and sad, and ashamed.

Ashamed of a fear of something,
This something was once my prey.
And then I stood up for myself,
And the hunter had nothing to say.

The hunter was sorry for hunting,
And appologized again and again.
He said he’d go back to being the prey,
But I was wondering when.

He talked about ceasing the hunt,
But didn’t follow through with the action.
And in the eyes of the prey,
It brings a tremendous dissatisfaction.

But now I’m the author again,
And everyone’s playing their role.
And I am again the hunter,
So the prey is taking its toll.

His toll is his life in my plot,
And since I pick what to write,
I choose myself to kill this prey.
He is the one now filled with fright.