I am so very, very heavy As the weight of the ground pushes upon me I am oh, so very heavy As the weight of my past presses upon me. My tip remains sharp And my end is still round But the elements have sanded me down So my face is now thin. I was once purely vital For your ancestors needed to hunt to live Yet now I lay buried and useless Filled with guilt for the ones I’ve killed. I recall when I used to fly through the air Piercing my target amidst cries of pain I would bathe in my bloody success Until I was recovered to kill again. My glory days have long since passed But now with so much time to ponder And with all the years that have passed me by I wonder, did I ever have any glory at all? For though the killing was necessary I still shoulder the blood and stains Is it merely part of nature Or is killing ever justified? Who would have thought That the life of an arrowhead Would start so free and light But end buried as deeply as mine?
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September 2014
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