The sport of killing,
My father says is fit for a king,
To take aim at a near-death soul,
To scatter the memory of the animal,
To hear the deafening BANG of a gunshot,
Fired from my own hands,
To see the feathers float down,
You are meant to feel pride.
Barbaric I say,
But you, and I am meant to feel proud, of taking life,
The pride of being bigger, stronger maybe,
To decide whether you deal out life or death,
To control what kills and what lives,
'Take the gun,' my father whispers, 'Fire it.'
I look into the sorrow filled eyes of the doe,
Even she knows what's happening,
Shaking I pull the trigger,
Guilt spread and ignored,
One clear salty tear cried, and wiped away,
One life taken, never to return.