The Long Hunt. Poem by MIRAK Montiel

The Long Hunt

I see forty hunting years
carved into my face—
not lines,
but wounds,
like footprints crushed
into the marrow of snow.

I tried to let go,
but these demons
aren't passengers.
They are sewn into my skin,
threaded through every
numb and trembling vein.

Fantasies rot in the corners
of my mind—
what once gleamed with promise
now flickers
like a dying light
behind frostbitten glass.
Each day drags them
further into the abyss.

There is no spring
left in my heart.
Only an early winter,
merciless and still,
echoing with the ghost of autumn—
its colors faded,
its warmth long dead.

My mind overflows
with memories
that no longer comfort.
Just echoes
in an empty room,
dust on the shelves
of a life
that never fully lived.

Too many words
spilled into silence,
meaning nothing
to no one.

And yet I remain—
threadbare and trembling—
holding on
to this fraying rope
before I finally
let go,
in the soft indifference
of a pale June afternoon.