icy wedge
Fletcher’s Arrow Aimed True
A poem by Martin Alfonso Arguello |||
Presley, I’m not a poet, but last night you did something great, so I hope this turned out ok. Sorry for the delay.
Presley means from priest’s meadow,
Fletcher means arrow maker,
She’s from priests meadow, here to make arrows,
And shoot them through our minds and to our hearts.
That’s what she did,
On that evening,
Even if she’d missed the others,
She hit her perfect mark on mine.
I didn’t expect her presence,
As she walked across the stage,
To sing her big solo,
To shoot her shot and shine,
Shine she did with all her might,
She shone like a star trapped in dark,
Star trapped in pain,
Light stolen, to be regained.
“idontwannabeyouanymore”,
She sings sadly to the seeing crowd,
“idontwannabemeanymore”,
Words reaching, arrow piercing,
They say feeling is what makes a good song,
The singer must be authentic, the song must be real,
Well this girl did more than feel, she refused to yield, reason too great.
She’s lived the lyrics,
Lived the pain,
Stolen heart,
Lived the shame,
But May 24, when evening came,
A battle with fear, the stakes are her name,
She held her mic in hand, grip held firm like a weapon,
Sung gently as a dove, but sharply in succession.
Battle won, fear defeated, dream made,
Her heart back, her pain drained, proudly named,
“Presley Fletcher” “What a stud!”,
“Fulfilled everything she could have done”.
Though the battle she fights is not alone,
All our souls fight a similar war,
So when she sang, and when her words rang,
They made it past our ears, past our bones, and into our hearts.
My heart changed that day,
And that’s because Presley Fletcher made her arrows,
Molded her words,
Took aim,
Fired away,
Hit her mark,
Hit our hearts.
I no longer mean many of the words I said the way I meant them when they were written. While I am embarrassed, I was rushed, I have learned. I still believe this is one of my most beautiful poems. It is just not one that should’ve been shared
wraith moth
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