The Hill

Towing his luggage up a Steep, sloping hill
he sniffs out the scent of a fresh gutted kill
with such a grim smell stinging his nose
he stood very still, unmoving, he froze.

The bushes, they rustled, not far away
as the sky was losing the last hint of day.
The traveler, he sprinted, trying the run
and drew from his belt an old rusty gun.

He hoped, prayed to god, that the weapon was loaded
as everything within him surely exploded
with a fear so intense he could hardly stand
while his legs tried to move at his crazed mind's demand.

As he stood at the top of the hill
he turned to find that the whole world was still.
The fresh stench of death still held the air
but to the traveler the world was finally fair
and empty and peaceful and lonely
But he was not alone, far from the only
soul on the hill.
The other slunk silently, hoping to kill,
this easy and foolish prey.
Blood was to be spilled today.

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Personally i hate this poem.. but i finished it nonetheless.. PLEASE comment