Game Over Poem by Aaron Marchant

I knew you were hunting. From the first, I knew
Yet the mortal blow had been delivered
long before your clumsy game of hide and seek
Your trophy was no proud stag, but an ailing beast
Weeping wounds made presentable but unhealed

The deception was not yours, but mine alone.
Each adoring tribute dusted off and second hand.
Every tear born of a bygone spring
Reserve that practised smile for novice game
There is no more sport to be had here