I string my bow ’neath star-flayed skies,
Where silence coils and mercy dies.
No tremor stirs my frozen breath—
I draw a line ’tween life and death.
The twang is wrath, the arc—a prayer,
Each arrow steeped in midnight air.
No shield withstands my patient aim;
I **** not for glory, but to end the game.
Cloaked in stillness, I haunt the rift,
A ghost whose gift is a final shift.
I do not miss. I do not flee.
The king won’t fall—he’ll cease to be.
“Archer’s Resolve” presents a cold, precise assassin whose every movement is honed to perfection. Set against a cosmic and shadowed backdrop, the poem explores duty without emotion, and death as an act of balance rather than vengeance. Each line draws tension like a bowstring—tight, measured, and lethal.
