Epigram ‘n Aphorism Samwiches

Fleeting Game/Curved Instruments

The widening cedes an easy target.
I draw an arrow from a forgotten quiver.
Something stirs in a long idle heart,
As I aim; it’s too late, out of sight.
The years an archer aches, pains more
To spy fleeting game in this forest.

The narrowing cloisters a hard soul.
I take up a bow from its neglected case.
Something stirs yet in a long idle soul.
As I aim, it’s my fate, within purview.
The years an artist pains, aches infinite,
To cull fleeting game out of this forest —

if ever again, because strings on bows break.


4.2.22

Something I made up…about tender instruments…as a heart.