I am just a poor boy,
though my story’s seldom told.
I have squandered my resistance
for a pocket full of mumbles such are promises,
all lies and jest.
Still, a man hears what he wants to hear
and disregards the rest.
When my father left us orphans
I was no more than a boy.
Left in the homes of strangers,
my brother and I fighting back
and running scared.
stumbling in the carnies’ quarters
where the lost and wandering go,
learning all the secrets only they would know.
With but my bow and wits about me,
I went looking for a job.
The work was dirty,
so much blood shed in the name of
power and greed.
Yet, as soon I’d see,
arrows shot for a man’s country
make the blood flow just as free.
Now the years are rolling by me,
Filled with anger, fear and glee.
I am less dead than I once was,
and more dead than I’ll be,
but that’s not unusual.
No it isn’t strange.
After changes upon changes
we are more or less the same.
After changes we are more or less the same.
Then I’m laying out my weapons
and wishing I was gone.
where the New York City battles
aren’t bleeding me,
leading me, going home.
In the clearing stands the archer
and a fighter by his trade.
And he carries the reminders
of every fight that laid him down,
or cut him till he cried out
in his anger and his shame,
“I am leaving, I am leaving!”
But the archer still remains.