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The Hunter's Overnight Rituals - Sick Entertainment
The hounds bellowed a haunting melody from a couple hundred yards away, a song that froze the adrenaline in her veins; they were closing in on her.
Beads of sweat rolled over her body, but she pressed on, bushes and tree branches clawing at her flesh and whipping across her bare back. She stumbled gracefully, her legs twisting together. Her mane stuck against her clammy neck and she gulped in icy breaths that stung her throat. Yes, she was the perfect victim of sick entertainment. The will to live almost crushed her, but the echo of hooves on the dirt path was motivation enough to keep her moving; she was marching to the beat of her own drum now.
The wind purged the acrid smell of fear into his nostrils; he sucked it in hungrily, savoring the other rich scent it carried- Blood. She made it too easy to find her.
The dogs bawled softly and a smile stretched over his lips, a warmth that filled him down to his toes.
Oh yes, boys. We're goin' to play tonight.
Have you read the novel The Sound Of His Horn by the great British ghost story writer, Sarban (the pseudonym of John W. Wall)? Your poem reminds me of his work, and that is quite an accomplishment, because Sarban is an exquisite writer. I think he would applaud your writing here.
Starward