She listens to the wind, like me,
and the shot rings out. The stag falls.

He plays pretend with her heart, though he
thinks better of it and does not deep down wish

to inflict such cruelty. But, in the end, he caves
and makes no stand for love and sacrifices them both

On some altar of the ways they say it is meant to be.
Never mind happiest moments or the white-winged dove.

There are things said to be written in the stars
and there are the scars of what is written on the heart—

the truth no man or king or queen shall part
and what outlives ready, aim, the final shot.

The irony not lost on me, they gather round: great stags
fallen, queen of hearts, to hear the angels sing to me.

Outside the wind whispers, then whistles, then roars.
A mighty lion in winter on the edge of honesty.