My Quiver

The Ghost Army.

The Horde, Host,

seeks to harm me.

I, alone, an archer

born, will send these

bolts into the swarm.

Pin them down,

one arrow, one kill,

thin the crowd,

so I can see the field.

My quiver, old leather,

infinite, word-arrows

to pin, then kill

the beasts that haunt me.

I, the Scarlett Archer,

will

shoot the head

from beneath

the apples.

When they’ve stilled,

I’ll share their

shape

as the battle

falters.


© CGT, 2018.

Edit: Hey, this is my 300th post!

Talk to me.

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