Friday, September 11, 2015

"A Fistful Of Air"

I take aim with my bow
and realize my quiver,
once full,
has been neglected

My arrows are sharp
and wonderfully made
They'd sure fly straight

But I've scattered them,
left them behind

I can pull
until muscles ache
or bow breaks

But no target will I strike,
nor prize will be won,
shooting with a fistful of air

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