Sometimes I get the feeling
our words are arrows
passing each other,
feathers steering a fine point
that misses its mark.
You declare a bulls eye,
but your arrow’s embedded in your neighbour’s target.
My arrow twitches in the straw
waiting for another chance.
A quiver full of words
I hope each aims true,
but sometimes the flight path
looks quite different to you
Shawn L. Bird 