Quivers

To stand on a hill with a glistening golden bow

and a jeweled quiver full of silver poison arrows,

is to feel that inner surge in power over the world.

It is to hold that mound over others with such intense zeal

because your preeminent skill and superior prowess

shall surely give complete dominion

over every minion of miscreant leanings

who is to your eyes the way the rest of the world appears.

 

But in the bushes lurk the lives burning with ire to get even,

those dreaded vigilant rebels and ardent assassins,

how easily it is assumed a flight in darts

can end that threat to any reign,

while feeling so confident

there is nothing that will ever

take away the rule claimed.

 

Corpses of challengers

lie as fatal testimonies as they rot in the sun

with the missiles sent so masterfully

seen sticking out of their bodies.

 

By the continued success pride swells inside

from having been so victorious,

blissfully assuming will always be the champion

despite the fact the arsenal in that pouch

has been exhausted.

 

In the midst of the drunken celebration

totally ignoring the vigilante

that is approaching and carrying a rock.

 

One bash and the reign of force is ended,

for while you can conquer by superior weapons,

sooner or later they get depleted

and the arrogance that causes an erosion in your safeguards

becomes an invitation for revenge.