Battle

Fletched feathered arrow
Snug in the string of the bow
Poised.
Waiting.

Fly me, archer, to the mark.

How taut the spine
That never learned to snap.

Light me, and let me circle
Wide flaming arcs
To spiral your night.

You burn the tip of me
But I fly true
I still fly true.

Your marching phalanx
Mocks my lonely charge
Sarissas high.

But I will find that weakness
I will pierce your armour -
Pierce it, impaling
Your quivering heart.

Fly me, archer, to the mark
For I fly true

I will still win
This battle called

You.

2002

Photo by koukei