The goal is the pursuit
The aim is pointed at the → means
As an arrow whose tip says-go forward →
>>>My tail feathers drag you down<<<
If freedom was voice
let it fly with motive,
words from the quiver,
speech is aimed at your heart
shot from the bow of pliable opinion
and if the goal were freedom
there can be no aim, a shot in the dark
seeking a warm body, swimming through cold air
hangs on your breath, steady, waiting for you to be ready
to let your grip go, open palms, holding hymns
held afloat by a lofty timeline, gravity holds her weight
in parabolic perpetuity
↔ arrows chasing despair ↔
releasing boomerangs in air
aimed at freedom
hunting down happiness,
caught by one’s own loud trap
the pursuit perishes,
passion plummets
blue dried blood on the tip
of your sharp tongue.
Image of Archery competitor at the 1900 Olympic Games via Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain.
