From my bow, six wayward arrows
arc sublime to rough the sun's halls.
Oh, fly fast, my sharpened sparrows!
Pierce proud channels through the sky walls.
Attack the clouds and break them all!
They'll settle on our drying bones
and our once rich and robust homes;
falling frenzy on the marrow
of life left marked by tilting stones
and a flight of wayward arrows.
Sunday Whirl words in a dizain for Kerry's (brutal!) Sunday challenge at Real Toads.
Also submitted to Poetry Pantry.