Worded arrowheads
are fastened to shafts.
They rain down on
our Love-fed ears.
Bowstring at ready
pulled back high-sky,
They strike down all
who lived this earth.
My soul, infringed,
asked, "How can this be,
with heart shut tight
from melancholy?"
Closed cold, a shield,
I thought could withstand
the force of a blow
guided not by your hand.
The force of a blow
guided not by your hand.
In time the sands
will salt our land.
Your words will crop
my sagging skin
and feed the ground
with hollow chest.
Death for the young
never-held as best,
but for this earth
a heart at rest.
But for this earth,
put Death to rest.
The price of youth,
pays for the best.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
Worded arrowheads
are fastened to shafts.
They rain down on
our Love-fed ears.
Bowstring at ready
pulled back high-sky,
They strike down all
who lived this earth.
My soul, infringed,
asked, "How can this be,
with heart shut tight
from melancholy?"
Closed cold, a shield,
I thought could withstand
the force of a blow
guided not by your hand.
The force of a blow
guided not by your hand.
In time the sands
will salt our land.
Your words will crop
my sagging skin
and feed the ground
with hollow chest.
Death for the young
never-held as best,
but for this earth
a heart at rest.
But for this earth,
put Death to rest.
The price of youth,
pays for the best.
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