Ficlets

Riddle Poem

I hurt with my mouth,
kill, disable.
I make noise when I hunt,
My prey which I
do not choose, rather my handler
that can be good or bad, chooses my target.

Not evolution or the hand of God,
created me to be what I am.
Rather, the hand of man,
that eternal proprietor
of fear and of death
created me to serve
their purposes.

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