Arrows Pointing In

He saw the arrows all pointing out except for one,

near where the small man sits, alongside his river, seeking comfort.

If these trees are not actually whispering to him,

only one different arrow reveals this to him;

it is, as always, too late by then.

He tries but fails to stand erect, the weakness wins;

connecting bowstrings were suddenly severed;

again, he thinks of losses too easily composed.

Then, he cries for her, for the smile he will not see ever,

so still he sits, beneath the trees, alongside his river.

He thought he had been careful, tasting virtue before eating it,

having a proper landing zone before he leapt.

Gauging the wind to see how destiny was steering,

as passion clouded, vision only weakly clearing;

what was revealed seemed close by, yet nowhere near.

Being seen as unreliable and known to lie,

people quickly wearied and quit making for him excuses.

He was then ruthlessly abandoned, coldheartedly left behind,

seeking the only thing that he was sure to never find

among the carefully drawn rows of crooked lines.

He saw the arrows all pointing out except for one.

Knew the names of each, had made an honest effort to.

Too late by then the hook of arrogance had snagged him,

futility took him by the leg and viciously dragged him,

like a hundred pounds of memories in a twenty pound bag.

Like many small fans spinning quite slowly,

a lot of air is moved but does not amount to much.

His thoughts are like that, spread and scattered,

beliefs collapsed from being so often battered;

that arrow found pointing in was the only one that mattered.

Life as it is, at least for him, like the center of the earth;

unreachable and uninhabitable even if you could.

Keeps expecting things to make sense that never will,

she has erased him from her mind, yet he loves her still.

When that single lonely arrow finds its mark, it will be the one that kills.