CROSSIE TAKES AIM
Not even knowing
he is there
bow drawn taut,
waiting
Soon his arrow
will sail across
this plane of illusion
and pierce me
The arrow’s head
will be my compass
the line of blood,
my path
CROSSIE TAKES AIM
Not even knowing
he is there
bow drawn taut,
waiting
Soon his arrow
will sail across
this plane of illusion
and pierce me
The arrow’s head
will be my compass
the line of blood,
my path