::: fletching :::

I awoke from my sleep to find that I am sticky with spent lifeblood.

That which is so carefully guarded flows freely on the well trodden dust.

My bleary eyes are shocked by the bright feathers dangling a foot from my chest.

The arrow, to which they belong, has been threaded neatly in between my ribs.

My heart is skewered within the bone cage meant to protect it.

The arrow was well shot by one who knows his trade.

But what I can’t discern is the intent.

Was it sent by a cupid or a devil?

Do I find pleasure in the pain, knowing it will bring me closer to your heart?

Or is the throbbing heat poison drifting through my veins?

If it is a false arrow, it was well crafted, for I am staggering from it’s impact.

If real, I take keen pleasure in letting the state of my heart be known to you.

If false, I cannot reclaim what has been spilt.

On one hand, I am cautious; on the other I’m willing to disregard reason for your affection.

The starting gun users in a marathon, meant for one with a steady pace.

My vigorous heart yearns to sprint.

Perhaps that’s why the gun hasn’t sounded.

Love with urgency, but not with haste.