feathered arrows
tales of cosmic floo floo's
soaring into the narrative
of the bull's...eye, blood red...
and white concentric circles
each with its own story stand firm
waiting for the razor's head...
we seldom consider the gusts of wind
the perpetual turning of the earth
we let her fly and hurdle along
leery perhaps of impact but fearless
like davy crockett, jim bowie
we leave the planet
before the shaft's penetration
stuck in a red dot, or off the mark
it's all the same, we do our best
with what we've got
at any given point in time,
doesn't give me the quivers...
I'm just a flawed archer,
winging....no ...flinging it
fling
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