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Ps.11 Refuge

The string is taut. Held extended in well-versed, hate-fuelled hand. Arrow; engaged. Balanced as sinew cuts deep into flesh. Ready  Enflamed.

And gripped in death-claw hold; is rough-hewn bow. It nears its failure with impossible force to bend. Splinters fold under skin of malice to remain. Steady. Aimed.

The archer ripped with force of undue aggression. I take to flight. I trace the arc of sky.  I hear compression of air to my destruction. I feel the rush of metal piercing void to find me. I know the archer’s skill. I know the archer’s venom. I dive and brace myself for impact. But I don’t fall. I soar again with hope and determination.  I fly to your mountain side;  I flee to security with you.

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