Title

.

His grace was undoubted, flying straight

toward the goal, an arrow shot from

Cupid’s bow, unhindered by his loss

of night, unchained from his weeping heart.

You might have heard it whistle past your

ears, once, after the harsh twang of string

propelled it forward through its nine lines.

Syllables measured the same number,

and there was no end until it struck.

.

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