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kevin wright May 10
The samurai fingers opened
In recall the bow floated forwards
Feathers freed its deadly path

Flying through the thermals
Spinning in its own vortex
Beckoning my soul

Both eyes opened
Cherry blossom floated across its path
The arrow parted life and death

Its point struck home
No escape
A fleeting pain of renewal

Pinned at the center of Adinkrahene
Civilisation awaits
Farewell, my demise is draped with its philosophy

A second arrow strikes deeply
Tainted by Eros poison
Love conquers all
The world today is a place of reality. The world of the past was a place of philosophy. A marriage of eastern and western philosophy.
Alicia Moore Apr 25
With the point of my arrow as sharp as my jaw,
my draw back and backtalk are equally as piercing.
Anna Maria Mar 20
The sturdy wood protrudes from my shoulder,
My fingertips trace the engraved cylinder
As my eyebrows come together in confusion.

The moon cries,
It’s tears sweeping into the cracks of the cement.
The sliver words shine in the light,
My eyes ache as it stings my eyes.

It reads words of condolences,
Listing lies and regrets,
Ones that have not occurred yet.

I curled my hand around the bark
And pull out the arrow.

I see why they are sorry now.
My knees are cushioned in the soft grass,
My shoulder contrasted this pleasant comfort.

You shot me with your apologies,
Knowing what would happen if I would not accept them.

But now your quiver is empty,
No more apologies sink into my skin.
For the job is finished.
It is too late for you to say sorry for you planned this.
Hammad Mar 19
My Heart
was like a
fragile
S
  p
   a
     r
      r
       o
       w
      
And You,
(The cupid)
How Cruel of you
when you didn't flinch,
drew the bow
and Shot
your
A
  r
    r
      o
         w
An arrow flying through the sky
does it hit it's mark, as it passes by

just like a shooting star
such grace and beauty

who was the archer
did he shoot for pleasure, or duty

But never will we know
for the body is so slow

compared to the speed
of a fast-moving arrow
rig Dec 2020
bow
archers on an archway
beside me, side by side.
nocked and locked in on me,
the arrows of eros:
the ones with the one with
the meanest demeanor.
Luna Sep 2020
some say the moon is full of illusions
but i've come to learn that isnt all true
The sun
doesn't always fill you with kisses
he throws
darts and arrows
too
The sun is the moons shadow
and the shadow is
the moon's Sun
Gabriel Girault Aug 2020
As an arrow flies throughout the sky,
it remembers its journey.
How it was
crafted,
Stored,
readied,
and launched.
He remembers the days where all he did was sit and think,
where he wished to be free.
Now that he is free he realizes that all is not how he dreamed.
He was heading towards a target,
one that he did not ever dream about.
He was going too fast.
All he cared for was life as it was,
but now as he flies through the sky,
breaking the air,
he realizes he wasn’t ready.
Bardo Jul 2020
Out of a **** he made Great Art
It was no ordinary **** no!
It was straight from the heart, that
   ****
It had lain too long in the dark
Now was it's time to start
To make its bid for freedom... and for stardom.

It flew like a dart that **** from the
   heart
Like an arrow strung from Cupids
   bow
Little did it know how luminous it'd
   glow
Becoming one of the Greats in the
   Farting Canon.

It was probably the greatest **** poem
   ever written
In my own humble opinion
It was very daring and it smelt of
   onion
It was certainly the fairest fartiest
   poem I ever seen
If it was one of the three Musketeers
It would have to have been
   D'artagoine.

It inflated like a balloon, blew up like
   a great glass bubble
Then it popped and headed off
   toward England
Flying further afield than any ****
   had ever flown
It touched people's hearts, bewitched
   every nation
Resounded around the world
Yea! was heard in every Kingdom.

It flew long, it rounded the Horn
Like a Lark, that ****, it soared and
   sung
It was no boring old ****
It was far fartier and fruiter than that
It was a King of Farts
Way above the fartiest of farters and
   all the farting Arthurs
It was the real King Arthur
The King Arthur of all farts and
   Farters.

A real Belter was that **** that came
   from the heart
That had all the Angels singing in
   their cloisters,
A real work of Art just like Mozart
Or remember... remember your
   Shakespeare
"Hark! A ****, a ****! Whereforth art ?
    Thou ****"
It played its part, that ****, yea! it
   wielded its Excalibur.

O! there's nothing I'd rather do than lie here blowing sweet bubbles next
   to you
You! on your little flutey flute flute and
   Me! on my big Bass Trombone.
This is the sequel to my other **** poem "Music a la Toilette". A bit of silliness/ fun.
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