Steady hand of the archer

Empty quivers lay scattered covering the ground like autumn leaves.

Long bows bent and whistle in the wind,

like fallen tree limbs in an eerie breeze.

Their strings are rotting, broken and frayed,

burnt out ribbons from arrows relentless showering parade.

Bull's eyes stare at a matador's red cape,

shaped like a precious heart,

but there is no escape.

Set free for me, all my lovely white doves.

Painful arrows from the archer find their mark,

only when sent from the one that you love.