What bow has set me to this futile flight,
Has sent me arcing to your armored heart?
Dare I trace the journey of that dart
To some willful archer of the night,
Some jokester god who, laughing, took his aim
At a mark no man might penetrate,
Leaving me to curse both love and fate?
No, I will myself take all the blame
And know I was a fool, as are men all,
For we choose to fly and, spent, must fall.
Stephen Brooke ©2005
a bit of pastiche, done purely as an exercise -- have to keep my chops up