Arrows laced with the spiteful poison of sorrow
Pierce the tender peace of a fragile heart
Stealing from it, a moment’s beat of happiness
By injecting the cruel and searing pain of hate.
Such arrows are his words—
The words of such an old and feeble man
Whose life story is told upon his face—
As if life dared to write of him
Yet found him unworthy,
And crumpled him up
Tossed him aside,
By some measure of chance,
Found him again,
And opened him.
But now he is wrinkled,
His story somewhat faded out…
Except for that scribbled look in his troubled eyes
Where life somehow misspelled the word happiness,
Made it unrecognizable,
He spews out scriptures in an attempt to sound wise, not holy.
He speaks of God to cast judgment, not to comfort.
He holds the Bible to condemn, not to love.
If he should know the Bible,
Then I wonder—
If the raging sea, so wild, so stubborn, so full of vengeance, yet having no mind
Could yield to understand, the warm, calm, loving command of peace…
Why can’t he?
His hot and steamy anger boils inside of him
As his need to settle the score with life
Pulls back the bow of his bitter heart,
Aims at any innocence that may cross his path
Shoots an arrow laced with the poison of sorrow,
Piercing such a fragile heart.
Yet I say a prayer for him that he would never say for me,
May God have mercy on his soul.