Apprehension - Poem by Foster Davis
I crouch before this fallen saint,
Relieved the race is run.
I rest my arms upon my knees,
The rage within me done.
His legs are spread, he sits upright,
His breath is short and hot.
His head is bowed, he stares transfixed,
He wants the blood to clot.
The shirt is torn, he wonders how.
His mind cannot accept,
He felt the slug as it passed through,
His life now seen...bereft.
He lifts his head, a question there,
For in my hand the animus,
A blue-black judge of no appeal,
The bow of Odysseus.
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