A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.

ARROWS

I have but one arrow left,
Unspent,
In its quiver,
The very same
That bristled with passions,
Some which flew at phantoms,
Falling wide and wild
To places unknown,
Others piercing their chosen mark,
But all of these,
I'm now outgrown,
Save this, the last,
Amuses me -
Though once buried
In that crowded place,
Biding for its time,
I can see
That all along,
Its target was already found,
And it shall stay
Upon my back
To never meet the bow,
For this new passion,
Happiness,
Is all I need to know.

7 comments:

WordsPoeticallyWorth said...

I love the analogy of this poem. Was the arrow destined for the suicide of the beholder? Thank you. Take care. Bye.

ellumbra said...

Hi WordsPoeticallyWorth - thank you for your appreciative comment.
Yes - a suicide of sorts, I suppose - particularly the host of impostors in the mind - insisting that happiness is found externally.

nothingprofound said...

Beautifully expressed with a nice sweeping rhythm, like an arrow flying towards its target. Only in this case the arrow itself is the target: happiness

ellumbra said...

Bullseye - nothingprofound - bullseye!
So pleased that you enjoyed this little flight of fancy - I believe in archery 10 points is the prize for piercing the bull.
Impoverished poets cannot afford prizes, unfortunately.
Thanks for your appreciative visit.

Count Sneaky said...

The last arrow is for the great beast of the concept of self. Aim well!

ellumbra said...

@Count, you've given me an idea . . .

. . . a I m . . .

Seek between that quantum narrow,
Aim unseen by white of eye,
Your target, one with flight of arrow,
Centred in I am, am I.

;)

Anonymous said...

NIce. You took a rather simple and common thought and made aIm! I like it. I'm a godfather of a real poem!