My Sweetest Hart Poem by Ivory Snow

As my bones grow brittle and my blood runs dry, is there nothing left in this hard, short life?
As my bones grow brittle and my blood runs dry, is there nothing left to keep me alive?
Of brittle bones once full of marrow, and a heart made of the finest arrow,
little is to be seen...
of the sweetest hart blood does flow, a brother gone too far, too long.
Lost in the darkness with no life to be found, lost in the wilderness to the baying of hounds.
Hunt of the hunted, spear against flesh, an arrow is blunted, across the stag's neck.
Freedom is lost, red stains the grass, the baying of hounds is close, at last.
As the dogs come close, I struggle in pain, I wither into the ground, and my hope is put to shame.
As my bones grow brittle and my blood runs dry, what else is left for me to deny?