Thursday, December 15, 2011

I am the arrow. A sort-of poem

I am the arrow
Hidden in shape
Far up in the tree.
I am the arrow,
stalk too weak to shape
but still.
I am so mother fucking sharp.
She never made the promise for me.
I lived where no man could go
No one thought me of any consequence.
So I waited for Him.
Waited to be shaped.
Waited for my sharpness to have a purpose.
The sharpening hurt.
Shavings of myself scattered across His workshop floor.
Oh, the glee He found in it, working on his weapons.
One day He whispered the Truth and I could not bear it.
I was eight years old and already aware of my purpose.
No one loved me, because love does not make one hard.
Not until one can be hard without it.
No one listened to me, because being heard does not breed perseverance.
At least, not until one has learned to persevere on their own.
Everyone I dared to love hurt me, because hurt was the fire of the forge
To make His arrow.
Every doubt, every question, is another stab at that which I despise---
Complacency. Perfection. That without error, that which cheats Death and Life.
I have lived and I have died and neither suits my personality.
Death is empty and Life is the knowledge of what empty means.
Because all that you have in Life will be gone and Death remains a mystery.
It is up to you to make that which you Love immortal.

I am the mother fucking arrow.
I am a weapon.
I am strong and sharp and poisonous.
He made me strong enough to stand alone
And alongside other arrows.
He showed me how weapons love.
He showed me how weapons speak.
He showed me Truth.