copyright 2015 by Andy Sweet
The
string loosens, the bow snaps and I shoot my endeavor
into
the void where predators perch, crouch, or stalk,
then
sacrifice a dive, a pounce, or a charge to capture
and
savor the succulent flesh.
I
cast down my labor, dying and dead,
where
above vultures circle without effort,
using
the heated, stinking updrafts only and
descend,
put down and gorge on the putrid carrion.
Would
not the meat be sweeter had it
life
and hope?
Drew
Adams
Journal
of Lamentations
