Fair Game

I am your mockery trophy,
once preyed upon, no longer hunted,
moth-eaten, past its prime,
mounted to gloat at.
Straddling my boulder egg,
I am a doe disguised,
morphed into a mighty stag,
adorned with useless antlers.
I bristle at the trunk behind me, laden with life,
while my roots grow inwards,
crowding out unspent, fleshless spaces
in which bare branches defiantly refuse to bud.
I carry wild blackthorn in my belly,
a warning to the uninitiated:
Enter at your own peril.
Roots reach upwards, into my hollow ribcage,
waiting with bated breath for my heart to hatch.