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The Arrow An arrow came for me today some forty years in flight. It knocked once, asked if it could stay and tendered me its freight. My room was bare, I'd no spare bed or victuals to offer. 'One-feathered birds,' the arrow said, 'we both were born to suffer. 'We trade in blood and though it's rare our storerooms are replete, once in the knowing archer's care we're emissaries of fate.' 'None die by me,' I tart replied, 'How can we be the same?' 'Because - this cannot be denied - the bosom is our home. 'We're just a word,' the arrow said, that can't be paraphrased. We have, once by the crossbow sped, already been erased.' |
This Poem was Critiqued By: DeniMari Z. On Date: 2009-10-03 18:58:23
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.95455
Wow, you've contributed so many good poems this month - this one captures the soul; it's more than a poem,
there's a moral to this story; and it stands out in the readers mind. Very, very good - It reminds me of Aesop,
a fable - and needs to be put elsewhere than just here.
Fantastic-abulous is all I can say;
God blessed you Mark, with talent - now take it and fly like your bird.....share it with the world.
Blessings,
Deni