arrows

sometimes the smallest
wound of words, like
silver arrows, build
up and kill whatever
hope there was of
winning this vague
war of lust and love.
you have dropped
the armor, the helmet,
the sheild and
the flurry of points
brings you to your knees.
you want out, you want
the horse, the path
that leads away, cold
mystery is better
than this could ever be.