Arrow

my

heart 

became 

the target

of Cupid’s barbed

arrows; how sweetly intimate

this exquisite pain becomes centered in my breast

a living agony; but such is love’s cost – ‘tis never caught ‘til you embrace its pain;

for none come out unscathed, nor unchanged; clay becomes not art until pummeled

worked over beyond reason, no longer common

mud, but now ceramic beauty;

now, my friend, embrace

your wounding

branding    

hot

kiss

© 2017 David W. Palmer