You wonder, why an arrow
Is cupid’s weapon of choice and William Tell’s
Legacy and an artefact or curio.
To me though, arrow is the compass head
That tells me why my wife’s buttocks
Blazes me in lust or why my life
Is perennially insured with the riches of her heart

And guided by an arrow
I walk the tight rope of fate
Knowing it takes only one off-balanced fall
To take you back to hopelessness
And still, you make little resolutions
To be the best husband you can be
Or a little dream, to be the best
Poet I can evolve to, in time.

And one day an arrow
Will pierce the apple of my eye
As she waits in a luminescent room
Under the watchful eye of angels
Who will descend to carry her
Far from my reach. And only then
Will I lose my arrowhead
My wind wane, who nourished me in cusped lips
And folded and unfolded her flesh
To make decades of love
A collage of memories

All I have, will then be
A taproot arrowhead inside the heart
That can never be unearthed
As a carrot or beetroot. My longbow
Of flesh that will never again
Hold an arrow in equilibrium.
In the smolder of a kiss
Or in the incineration of chemistry.

And she will always be
Where my arrow points to,

My cardinal North.

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