I wake and look to the trees
Sunlight lapsed for sodden fog
Grey coiled around every needle,
Smoke-signal wisps into the night

I wake and look to the trees
Blinding white dusted like ash
Mourning, slowly, the forest whole
Bends under the weight

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