The choir swells, wails, their song drowned
by your splinters of rapture in the night...
When you stand atop rubble and lingering flame
who will remain to laud your victory?

And so I dig a shallow grave
for the fairytale castles
All of a love that never was,
laid softly in the earth

An arrow pinched
Between delicate fingers,
Gently nocked, but aiming true,
Pulled taut against the bowstring.

It sings through the air,
Harmonious, but decisive,
And it strikes silently,
Knowing only one destination.

...And so begins Cupid's hunting season.

I'd paint you in dreamscapes—
visions of rolling hills
and fields of autumn leaves,
your form draped in grass
and sunset dapple—
porcelain, delicate beauty,
a work of art, the way I see you

Those delicate eyes
catch the light, glinting
'cross this fickle sword,
my evasive desire

there is no greater love
than one that transpires despite adversity—
one that stands tall and sturdy as the oak,
unmoved by any wind that dares to face it