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The Arrow

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A solitary arrow, drawn from quiver, shot from bow
Cut a placid sky to ribbons as it travelled towards the snow
And though the marksman's target fell without a glimpse of pain
Upon the snows where it resided lasts a crimson stain
The sharpshooter took up his prize and never did return
Nor did he see how scarlet blood slowly began to turn
But if the shredded sky called out so our young man turned back
I'm sure he'd see new fallen snow turning tenebrous black
He'd gaze upon the footprints left by his unknowing tread
He'd see the gravestones sprouting to accommodate the dead
Who's passed just moments after he'd performed his thoughtless deed
For with his sure swift weapon he'd planted a deadly seed
Therefore the great serenity found in that stainless land
Melted to an austerity in which he'd played a hand
Clouds and fields fell stygian as all turned black as night
Fair weather birds met frightful ends as baneful crows took flight
And though the world is white and clean when viewed from far away
Its content remains severed from the one ill-fated day
His arrow tipped with persiflage rests on the snow bank still
His words were merely aimed to slight but with his words he killed.





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