words.
Wet paper arrows
quivering against
the bright string
of the bow.
The arrows
will never fly,
but they will fall and
break
and tear.
They are tentative
and scared,
frightened by
nothing there.
Glass arrows
are held tight
by the string
of the bow.
They can never be released,
because they cannot
hit their target.
They will break
and shatter
and crack,
because they were
only ever meant
to be an emblem,
a keepsake–
they are useless
in their
purpose.
They are bold
but fragile.
Broken easily.
Fabric arrows
dangle helplessly
in the hand
of the archer.
They can hurt no one
but they can protect
no one, either.
They are useless
and soft
and gentle.
They cannot be broken
and they can injure no one.
There are no arrows
in the quiver
anymore.
Fired in their
helpless uselessness,
and the ground is
littered with
arrows
and blood.
Glass and
paper
and fabric.
They are stained and
shattered
and torn.
The arrows
are no more,
laying between
the archers.
They cannot be taken back.
They cannot be
undone.
