An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.
Originally posted on Weekly Writing Prompts on March 12th, 2017.
He pulled a bow, arrow on the string,
following a target he’d been chasing for many weeks.
He almost lost it, for his losing often stings,
and this one’s a runner, elusive at it’s peaks.
His obsession goes beyond purest passion;
he relishes the hunt, the game that’s been played.
Accounting for the wind that thwarts his arrow’s blade,
he considers the distance that’s further than he fashions.
It was a singular chance to end his endless dance,
one that our man took, he who shot and missed.
The arrows bounced off, and never stood a chance
and the target glanced back, fully able to resist.
Therein, our archer failed, his target had escaped.
No measure of arms could ever ensure his hopes.
Any other would feel low, have surrendered to this fate,
but he stood tall, and knew he had it on the ropes.