This Arrow's, Heart Poem by Michael Gale

The arrows of disgust usually find their way directed at Me...
Always sharpened and honed in on time to Thee.

Razor's edge to sharpest point...
Freely moving within the joint.

Unhindered as the bleakest parody of Man...
You know, the One who knows that He must
do what He freely wants, and can?

That arrow which can pierce and
dissect, the cleanest wound...
You know which one, the One
that can go unobtrusive,
to Those, unsound.

At it's very core...
To forever remain, thoroughly, sore.