Like glorious plumes,
the arrows bristled.
His back is filled –
a million fletched missiles.
He is running away
from Cupid’s wishful
fusillade,
all-eclipsing –
loosed hafts, by the fistful.
The Sun sets west,
mournful silhouettes,
these great plumed birds,
blessed,
will fan their feathers,
and breathe their last,
as Cupid rounds the front
to pierce their breasts.
He’ll be disappointed,
at best,
to learn
those older arrows
killed them first,
half-past
the middle marker,
where they’d hoped to rest.
©️ 2020.
Related: Let Fly in Measures