The arrow is long;

The shaft is slender;

The barbs are deep;

Wounding and cutting in pain.

The ooze, an ongoing drain,

From the reservoir, weeps;

Each fragment blood surrenders;

Robbed from bonds once strong.


Whose bow full drawn;

Released the carriage

Taken on the open road?

No hindrance to any.

Each passenger; Were there many?

Entered and rested aboard;

While onward the carnage

Rolled over; Into the morn!


How should the procession mourn?

In the shared satisfaction

Left; Concealed and soon

Wanting for all to see.

Each; Time given for free

Advice grips waiting doom;

Passing by, no restriction

Reaching outward, inward forlorn.


Whose voice will echo?

Whose finger will point?

Marking that which is known;

For all who wish to comment.

It is too late to lament;

To run from all that is shown.

The cast is set, and if not joint,

The anguish borne stands on record.


There is no protection within!

A fantasy of truth; Or tale!

Is there escape?

Only from fear!

Accept as you hear;

Dressing that which can wait;

With clarity, pass by a finale;

Granted pardon for sin!


Aug. 12th. 1991 © Will George.

Will George Poet