Ps.11 Refuge

The string is taut.
Held extended in well-versed, hate-fuelled hand.
Arrow; engaged.
Balanced as sinew cuts deep into flesh.

And gripped in death-claw hold; is rough-hewn bow.
It nears its failure with impossible force to bend.
Splinters fold under skin of malice to remain.

The archer ripped with force of undue aggression.
I take to flight.
I trace the arc of sky. 
I hear compression of air to my destruction.
I feel the rush of metal piercing void to find me.
I know the archer’s skill.
I know the archer’s venom.
I dive and brace myself for impact.
But I don’t fall.
I soar again with hope and determination. 
I fly to your mountain side; 
I flee to security with you.

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