How could I ever make it through?
Shooting one hundred twenty arrows,
For two days, back to back,
And for countless hours each day.
My throat singes like a torrid, blistering fire.,
My voice diminishes to hardly,
a sore murmur and whisper.
The surroundings around me,
Supportive parents in the bleachers,
benevolent coaches,
to even the hushed archers,
waiting for their queue.
Seems as if…
they are shifting- vigorously, turbulently.
I block out all sight,
only concentrating
on the emptiness and blackness.
then swiveled to face the vibrant target,
eighteen meters away.
I grimaced as a shocking spasm
circulated my body while raising my bow.
The sight throbbed,
incapable of locking on to the gold.
Just a few seconds.
My eyes dilate, fixating on the center.
I released, watching the arrow flutter
gracefully away from me.
How could I possibly make it through?
One at a time of course.
