Rain upon cubblestone
He distances himself to the outher edgebefore he lets the arrow fly
the arrow has lain there waiting
he has been sitting waiting
- not for the right moment
that is not who he is .
Its more the target has fallen into the position
where the arrow cannot miss.
Expectanlty he sits now, waiting
for the blood from the arrow to seep,
waiting for the moment when surrender
will be his trump card in her
Rain upon cubblestone
dances on bare feet
an angle grows wings
Maybe condemned
maybe only a shadow of yesterdays lost illusions.
There is something between these layers
a glimse , a light
stronger than simply seeing.
Disguises make it easier
easier to sit back in the hole
someone else has dug.
Maybe condemned
maybe loved
Rain upon cubblestone
dances on bare feet
an angel grows wings
Poetry by jane67
Read 2 times
Written on 2026-09-14 at 19:41
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