Stuck

ells the yet to come.

Stuck

I am an arrow shivering in
The quiver, I lay buried therein
Face down and mounted on the
Back of the archer a giant weakling

The archer’s bow has been eaten by
Termites as the enemy made him
Friend and loot him with sweet gestures

His bans are filled up with foreign
Luxuries and his treasures are laid
To rust,
What hope then have i?
I am just on the back of the archer
Without a bow, the archer without sight

My will is suppressed by the archer and yet
I was called weak, no bow to be stretched on
And yet I was called worthless,
I quiver in the quiver, for lack of purpose
Purpose! Purpose! The archer’s purpose

I alone can pierce, but I need
A bow, I need an archer to stretch
Me on the bow, I need an archer to
Aim me on his will.

But I must now pierce this back I mount
To get my want,