Sentimental crap

Pretend you’re an owl
Gliding in the starry sky
Hunting for little mice
As you hoot your battle cry
Eyes fixated on a target
You prostrate your deadly claws
Like a jouster on his wings
You strike! It has no flaws
Triumphant, you return
And close your eyes to morning grey
Stuck inside your pointy beak
The remains of tasty prey

Isn’t it better to be a human
And avoid that sentimental crap?
That’s what I was supposed to say
But I fell into my own trap
The stunning image of the owl
Now so vivid in my head
I thought I was writing the poem
But it wrote me instead

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