Dear archer,

when all is wounded yet shielded
by shards of silver rain,
when one cannot distinguish
between sight and golden stain,

will you take aim?
and strike
upon strike
upon strike?

when time frowns upon itself
and pleas for its failing health,

when an artist masters their stroke
to mix crime with casualty
to blur our reality
to pollute the tint of morality,

I plead that you still take aim

and strike
upon strike
upon strike