Popular invitations
Sent from heralds of punch and perfume
Simple news for a lonely intimation
When asking is a favored voice to loom

Generosity, and the stir of deed
Done with sorrow, as a future has been
See the wish of gaiety, of me...
The miracle of need, is but a strength to sing

Sincerity asked, what has a luck seen for the better of others?
And with the delicate truth to share, can we see the baring lot?
So exposed, so triumphant for a quiet hope, come of age to bother
The very routes of dismay, a looking how, that has joy for now?

And the light has fed the cause, of reasons conscience?
Risk and tenacity running so fast, for a truth to dwell...
Upon the seclusion we sake an hour, of something greater than prescience
And the fate of it, a happier draw of attention, to a reach still...

As we thought, a marvel of sincerity and furies with a moment to tell
The world is a sour passion, come of distance as a reward for life
In the details and the wayward way we make spirit to fulfil
When notion is a curious live, for something greater than hatred's sight?

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.

Love given, but not taken, is not love un-received;
You have love to give,
That is something.
Whether their heart is open
To the souls' hymns
Your words sing,
The song is never wasted-
But goes through changes,
As the renewal of spring.

In love's tapestry, a tale unfolds,
Where Cupid, the archer, his story molds.
A fateful day, his aim went astray,
The wrong arrow struck, leading hearts astray.


A quiver full of arrows, each with a role,
One for passion, the other for the soul.
But Cupid, in haste, confused his art,
Shot the wrong arrow, tearing love apart.


In the labyrinth of emotions, I found my way,
Entangled in love's web, where shadows play.
The arrow meant for joy pierced my heart,
Yet sorrow's seed grew, tearing love apart.


A tragic chapter, my love story unfolds,
As pain and heartache, in its pages, molds.
Cupid's error, a twist in the plot,
A love story woven, then tangled in a knot.


People say it's a folklore, a tale to be told,
Of love's missteps, where hearts grow cold.
A saga of pain, with a sad, bitter end,
Yet in its telling, generations transcend.


For love's not always a tale of delight,
Sometimes it's pain that colors the night.
A twisted arrow, a love story's bend,
A folklore passed on, from friend to friend.


So, in the echoes of the cupid's wrong aim,
A love story born from sorrow and pain.
A folklore woven in the fabric of time,
A cautionary tale of love's subtle rhyme.

I tell you
My name is William Cupid
I see that apple in your eye
Have no fear my dear
off the rack
I'll nock
pull back
and let these arrows fly

Of all the things we’ve shared together,
I will always remember…
The first time we hung out,
And how I had the best time with you.
How happy I felt getting to know you.

Our first kiss,
And how your lips felt against mine,
The first time you told me that you loved me,
And how that moment became a memory
I’ll never forget.

I love everything about you,
And anything that reminds me of you.
Because for me,
It will always be you…

absent from my life,
but dancing forever in my mind.

preserved perfectly:
idealized and beautified,
immortal, god-like.

wanting to let go,
yet holding on too tight.

memories, exaggerated:
they haunt me,
notoriously unreliable.

close my eyes;
take me back in time…
before I was bloodied by his arrow.