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


I have but one arrow left,
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,
Is all I need to know.
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