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


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s