THE STRAIN OF THE DRAW

I draw the bowstring to my cheek

The sturdy wood. It trembles in

Excitement, like a starving wolf

That aches to pounce upon its prey

The gentle bowstring, whispering

A cry of pain. It strains to hold

This weight, this aching strain, this pain

I feel upon my tired frame

Release, a craving felt by both

The man and its machine. Release!

The arrow flies, and bow and string

Return to peaceful sleep. And I,

Still fighting, nock another shaft

There is no rest, there is no pain

There’s only me, a target, and a gain

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