In a war of arrows
Her heart was found.
Flaccid were the stem attached to the pointed tips.
Soaring the height of love.
Crashing down in a turbulent ******.
Flung from tight strings, bended wood.
The ground lay covered in the aftermath of thrill seeking
Underneath the shadow.
A shaman hung his head in such complex circumstances
An addiction to abuse

Eyes do speak.
It's funny how they perceive the things around.
The broken conversations heard by fully complexed ears.
I believed that I'd be ok.
The conclusions that eyes draw.
Never making sense of the words heard.
I believed it to be my biggest mistake.
Falling for the beautiful images seen.
Following sight, my first love.
Pain is often beautiful, layered one color after another.
The stories that unfold given enough time.
The initial cause and effect, forgetting the love immortalized before anything
was ever heard.
The intimacy that eyes will only understand/
Speak to me and I'll fully understand.
She'd never been in love.
I gazed intensely
Still I pursued

Of all things,
She opened my mouth and built a bridge only we knew existed.
She arranged pillar upon pillar
Of steel beams.
I struggled understanding what
To do with the left over bolts.
She grabbed my hand
Taking turns throwing them on the outskirts of where we stood.
We stood between the beams,
An incline of sights seldomly seen.
Afraid of heights she rarely looked down.
She'd bury her head in my chest
Very rarely she looked down.
Spoken words clustered in steel beams
Without fear of plunging below.

In contemporary belief.
A archer went to a shaman for relief.
A answer to ease fear of thoughts.
Finding his way home, the trail of war became too much.
He struggled with the regret of building a life away from what he knew.
When he came to the shaman.
The shaman hung his head low.
Smelling the stinch of blood.
Still he could not turn his back to the archer.
When posed with the young archers question.
He sat puzzled. Summering the long winded statement to "a great change must be made. Else all will fade."
Knowing of the young archers longing for a maiden.
The archer looked puzzled.
Yet the shaman spoke nothing else.

The young archer was called upon.
A war broke on the opposing side.
They needed his skill in fear that survival was utmost.
Without time to think the archer grabbed his bow. His arrows and darted quickly in the direction the war has taken place.
He quickly coiled arrow to bow. In repeated motion until none were left.
A field of arrows covered the small space.
War does something to a man.
A brief clarity after the slaughter of contemplation.
The shamans words dawned upon him like a snake.
He darted to the shamans place in great discoverly.
Finding that the shaman as well as his possessions were completely gone without trace.
He darted back to the field.
Searching through a forrest of arrow.
A heart wrenching feeling stuck on his face.
Guiding his way through the arrows he found a familar hand. Connected to a familar torso.
A face stuck in agonizing eternity.
The shamans words made more sense.
Backing away from the body.
Thinking deeply. Damning his hands.
The thing that came as habit.
He broke his bow in the reflection of his maiden's eyes.
This war gone astray inside of him

Due to popular belief. I believe that certain things are due to happen naturally.
Like all other things it's bound to grow. This thing, love.
We are due to become obese to this organic, homegrown feeling.

The initial look that begins as taste. Naturally we are starved.

Aroused by the scent that lures us close. This thing, love.

One thing we must learn is self control. To not over indulge in the primary reason it exists.

To selfishly take because it's there. This thing, love.

Effort exudes as it becomes habit. Being placed at a table readily available for what portion comes next.

This need becomes confused with want.

To please others before our need in unselfish manner. A straight forward response to habit.

The rising availability of also being taken for granted. The insurmountable outline that defines lust.

Our intake becomes higher attempting to justify the difference. Thus we become lazy.

Reacting in ways we normally wouldn't. This thing, love.

This scent acts as incentive,  instantly attracted by which we over indulge.

Searching for this thing, love.

It's a reasonable thing. Knowing when to reach. When to pull. When to give and sacrifice.

Almost always all of these happen, learning self control, vocalizing when we've had our fill.

Else we will continue to eat until there is nothing left.
Grown obese. This thing, love

In the morning her eyes paint the cities horizon.
Stretching and yawning.
Getting dressed; Her blue tapestry.
Opening the door to her apartment
She climbs down broken stairs.
It's payday Friday.
The mail man is late again.
Opening her box closing it right back.
She considers direct deposit,
Climbing back up those old creaks in the stairs.
To a notice on the door.
Excessive noise complaint
Rent past due

Before I knew it I darted towards her like a train.
Barreling toward her fast as I could.
Inhaling deep, releasing deep huff.
The rumble of what came to be manifested before I was seen.
The notion of steam clouds and rod hot like iron.
Darting past the station.
Caution thrown to the wind in a solid fluid motion.
The rumble of my heart lead the way.
Stead fast, the scenery of steeping in front of emotion.
Track after track.
Winding and twisting with nothing to block the way.
I shot into a tunnel.
Stepping head first into what I have always known.
The express route to desire.
To inhale in ultimate asphyxiation.
The next station miles and miles away.
We were punctual.
Breaking down in deep huff.
Trails of smoke funnel where I lost my breath

What we have together is complicated.
It very well may be toxic.
But I am glad it happened.
I ask if you love me.
The physical representation of thirst.
You curve my appetite in so many ways.
I am full in knowing that you complete me.
Such a sensual smell.
My mouth burnt by the hot.
My taste buds go insane each time you are near.
Watering at the mouth.
I've eaten too much but know you fulfill my every need.
I often picture a life together with you.
Seasonal aroma, stirred and mixed.
Following your lead.
We grow older.
At times you upset my stomach.
I regret the decision of going to find you.
But this is the same reason I am drawn towards you.
Licking the corners on my mouth.
You fill what hunger I have and I love it.
Because I love you.
We may have our spats but that's anyone that confuses misunderstanding.
I am sincere in the way I am reminded.
Yet selfish in the way I am spoiled.
I love you because you always commit with purpose.
One spoon at a time.
To wake up and have you here with me.
I wouldn't trade anything for it.
To wake up and have you beside me, 
To wake up and ask is that Shrimp Fried Rice on your breath

And when I dream of you.
The pages turn.
Highlighting a million and one things.
All captivated by the sound we touched with our eyes.
Each played in beautiful melody.
I'd chase behind you.
Playing a symphony each time you'd smile.
Between the pause we were soft.
Supple.
Forgetting which one of us was sleeping.
Revealing all of our secrets.
You taught me how to sing.
Forgetting to move my mouth.
Each emotion thrown from my stomach.
When I dream of you,
I see all the colors.
So vividly played in beautiful color

Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
Joy murmurs above.
We crave patience.
Twisting the top off each other's head.
Who first insults permission.
Applying our hands as cups.
No longer dull to the vapor of how we feel.
We recline in long verse.
Spudders of interruption.
The rush of anticipation.
Pressed against the couch.
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
Opening up to you without cease.
Frequent sips of red wine.
Tilting you over filling my cup.
Eager to sip in weighed sway.
I hear and smile.
Feeling the effects.
How you laugh.
How you smile.
It's funny how time flies.
Leaves in Spring.
Blown away, scrunched up in the crinkle of your dress.
Rustic brown & red accented in black.
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
There's no alternative.
I'm an alcoholic.
Pursuing sip after sip.
Civil in how we converse.
Neighboring bold taste