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Eros's Arrow
November 2, 2018
His cold fingers stretched the bow
as I stood in place.
He let go, and I was
released,
the wind whistling beside me as I neared my wistful victim.
“Please spare me Olympus,” I cry,
ready to strike on my hapless target
like a snake approaching a blind mouse.
And I land, my target entranced.
I am but a Trojan horse,
deceiving my host with the gift that kills,
the promise that never fulfills.
Love.
© Anonymous
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