Стрела

Words like an _arrow_, pierce true and hard,

Without protection, they are sure to leave you _scarred_.

But not all scars are bad at all, and some bring _peace_ to all in all.

In wounds and sorrow, we can find the bliss we seem to miss inside.

Sticky, thick and deep they stay, on the surface, they convey

The past and world intertwined, into skin tissue they combine.

An arrow once has hit the spot, and left a mark that is _hot_.

And in this mark that time they find, a pain beyond the measure of mankind.

A chainmail forged in pits of hell, we wear a guard to stop the yell,

With greater cover we now can hide, from all of the arrows in the sky.

Some arrows pierce with words of choice, whispers or even a shout,

Leaving a trace of passing, inside and on the out.

From arrows that have found their mark, a change is surely now to come,

Through old ideas they rip through, heating the skin surrounding the issue.

We often try to interject, deflect, but one arrow we must come to embrace,

Each touch with it shapes, the inner space within eternal universes face.

Like waves emotions rise and fall, arrows of prose and verse can converse.

We are targets and the archer both, the words we use a gift to heal or to corrode.

In verbal flights proceeding forward, we discover solitude in wounds of past,

There is no more reason to avoid the arrows that have come from the void.

It's in our sorrow wisdom hides, it awaits your presence to rise and abide.

Let your words of arrow fly, for it is in their soaring that you make them try,

To make the stories that create change, this is reality, it is not strange.

Pierce or fend for self, become avoidant or accept,

Each decision will bring us from that void.