The Arrow
An angel shot me through the heart
and I died, and I died;
I was a fitting victim
in my pride.
The ache tore through my chest
into my core; it did not rest
and a tear out my eye's corner
trickled down --
it slowly welled up, softly,
tickled out,
a single tear of longing,
no more could I
have borne, not one more tear,
for as I died
it seemed my soul would shatter, break apart,
from fractures made by the arrow in my heart.
Such aching pain can any man resist?
It slew me, broke me, slays me;
love it is
and how this human heart in suffering aches
from one small dart of love,
for our hearts break,
so forceful is that love tearing inside.
An angel shot me through the heart,
and I died, and I died.
