The Crown of Horns

In moonlit fields where dark does play,
I ran before I knew a way.
Born with horns I never chose,
A story told, a prize supposed.

They whisper low, call me a farse,
Yet track my steps beneath the stars.
Through smoke and sage, through dusk and dawn,
They chase the shape my bones were drawn.

A hunter’s eye, a hand so still,
Would take my life, would claim my will.
But wind still sings through hollow bone,
The cry of those hunting alone.

Some run to hide, some run to fight,
Some pray to make it through the night.
But heed the call, a whispered breeze—
The jackalope was born to flee.

And when the dust and echoes fade,
A story lingers in the shade.
The horns I bear, the name they spoke,
A phantom laugh, a running joke.