Saige Shrier

Contributor

The archer releases the arrow, following providence’s path,

It strikes the heart of my matter, puncturing my core

I want to be rid of reveries I cannot shake

I beg to be cured of them

Crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle–

I can’t brush off the feeling that botanicals will not heal this ache

Prescribe me a prophecy,

Where I am unburdened by the sounds of a lyre

The stab of its song is that of what I cannot bear

I don’t want to hear its music, it’s too loud for me to stomach

Be gentle with your aim,

Remedy the presage that refuses to quiet