Author’s Note
The Hunted is about inevitability—the moment when fear stops being chaos and becomes certainty. Set beneath an unforgiving moon, this poem leans into isolation, communal helplessness, and the quiet terror of knowing you are seen. Sometimes horror isn’t about escape or survival, but about the instant when the night decides you are already chosen.

The Hunted
Poerty by B.D. Nightshade
Beneath the blood-red Oklahoma moon,
The wind whispered tales of an impending doom.
Fields lay barren, shadows stretched thin,
And in the silence, the hunt would begin.
From the corners of dusk, they came like smoke,
Slipping through the dark where nights breath spoke.
Fangs gleamed like daggers, their eyes burned bright,
Predators cloaked in the velvet of night.
The townsfolk prayed, but the prayers fell hollow,
For shadows were swift, and death would follow.
Doors were barred, yet whispers slipped through—
A scream cut short; the hunters withdrew.
In alleys and homes, the carnage grew thick,
Their hunger unyielding, their movements quick.
Lifeless bodies, pale and drained,
Crimson rivers where innocence waned.
Yet one remained, a flickering light,
A soul still standing in the heart of the night.
Surrounded by eyes like coal aglow,
Faces twisted, predators’ tableau.
Breath hitched, heartbeat a deafening sound,
As they closed in, encircling their ground.
The air was heavy, laden with dread,
As the hunted whispered, “Soon, I’ll be dead.”
The moon, a witness to the fatal plight,
Bathed the scene in unholy light.
The hunted stood, with resolve so grim,
Facing the abyss, staring back at them.
In that moment, the night seemed to pause,
A final rebellion against nature’s laws.
And as the predators moved to consume,
The hunted vanished, swallowed by gloom.
Oklahoma sleeps, but the tale remains—
A town once bathed in blood-red stains.
For where shadows creep and darkness grows,
The hunted’s story is one the wind still blows.
If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]


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