He's just a young, winged
boy whose bow and arrows
are ever at the ready.

His arrows are golden,
animate with the feathers
of doves, or leaden,

listless with the feathers
of owls. Singling out
his next, unsuspecting

victim, whether god or mortal,
he pulls an arrow
at random from his quiver,

fixes its notch flush
against horsehair, stretches
the bowstring till it frays,

and shoots, invading
the bull's-eyed heart
with doom or craving.

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