You’re marked for a hunt

And hunted down,

Each time you’re maimed

A little more

Than the time before;

You compensate though,

In ways that only your body knows,

But your hunters can see

For the limp, it shows.

And finally,

You are struck down,

Except, it’s not a fatal arrow

But it’s just enough,

To bring you down

On your knees,

In a mire, so deep

All you can do, is sink in,

‘Cept, you don’t want to wallow;

But there’s no one,

To help you

Get back on your feet,

So you fall back in,

Mud on your face,

Rinse and repeat,

Again and again,

Till it’s part of your being

Long after you’re out.

Image Credit: Photo by Bob Richards on StockSnap