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A quiver of arrows

Collection of souls

Pride of the archer

Weapons against the world

Tools to tear the flesh

Of any who oppose him

The arrows wait, ready

To force all to obey

But some desire peace

Some don’t want to be sharpened

For the file wears them down

Diminishing them to nothing

An enemy so bleak and vile

Yet an enemy so distant and vague

The arrow flies

And is finally free

Missing the mark

And falling to the ground

The archer blames himself

For his crooked aim

But he couldn’t control the wind

Nor dictate the will of the arrow’s heart