Grand edict of Eros,
bestowed upon a meadow
that turns into a bog
in the monsoon.
Trapping and collapsing
even the most well-armoured heart—
Heart that walks in a circle,
following the breadcrumbs that lay
on the bloodied earth,
next to the bodies and arrows.
Crumbs that lead to one
meeting themselves.
Bodies, disposable;
souls, crafted into sapience by the flesh,
clipped coins and the pittance of a care
for the wounded heart.
Only steel pierces the heart, truly—
even fish in the corals have more depth.
