My Quiver of Waste

I think that a thought is an arrow that springs
From the bow of an intellect grand
By the coincidence of a number of things,
All crafted in destiny’s hand.

The tenser the bowstring, the farther it goes
To land in a sea of a plan,
A hilltop of action, a field of repose,
Or a swamp of the words of a man.

Post Categories: Poetry

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