the warrior’s bow is taut
mute fingers know their mark.
eyes pierce the target far
before the arrow flies
across the chasm of lies.
her words pound and bruise his chest
while enemies snake throughout
the mountain,
caves of grief awaken chieftains
for tomorrow’s wave of ocean
sheening.
sleep pulls him towards the light
where day and eve conspire,
twine and melt as burning tree limbs
in passion’s mortal fire.
as he dreams in dozing arms
the curved weapon quiet
at his side,
one image camps for days:
cerulean shoes
her regal
cobalt sway.
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