Quiver

vagabondprophet:

They say there’s an archer in the sky
And surely his bowstring grows taut
When he’s aiming at his prize
Perhaps the boar or the horse

Why must you aim at me
You,
Celestial and otherworldly
Surely I’m no trophy

Yet I find myself cornered
My pulse gone flat
Just like your bowstring
Pulled by your touch

I beg you just let go
Better to be slain
By an arrow from your quiver
Than to quiver all my life.