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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THE ARMORY

2017 Jan 24, Tuesday
THE ARMORY
Behold the mighty armory

Bedecked with walls of arms

With all the kinds of weaponry

That bring the greatest harm
The swords, the shields, the bows and spears

Still shining fresh and new

The battered armor of the years

Still strong when worn on you
With all the arms beneath this light

I lack in nothing here

Except, perhaps, the will to fight

Of that, there’s none, I fear
– theresurreccionofkevin