her sovereign bow

She takes
the stage with sovereign bow,
and arching back
and forth, she'll go
a-slaying sovereign hearts
at will, she's gone
a-maying, out amidst
the daffodils. Each plucked
and breathed, with nary miss
and chary kiss goodbye
to each, perchance to grieve -
each cherished in her heart
and taking place on sleeve,
in ordered rows. A record
of such pluck she chose.
A record of each arrow's
flight, each point
shot through, stuck
bolt outright in
victory - to quiver in
its newfound home.
Each swearing to her
fealty, forever
nevermore to roam.
Each halted just
mid-beat, stuck fast -
an instantaneous repast
of steel and shaft
no heart could stand,
except to fall,
then beaten,
beat again.

To feel again
no more - except
for her; no game, yet
caught up in the score. Each prize,
collected by the glance,
by ease, at will - no chance
to still the trembling
transfixing still, of her
departed darting lance. This
arrow has
already killed.
It will go on.
It will not end,
unless - some cruel
and merciful pale hand
should weigh, lay hold,
and brace, then strongly pull
- and draw
it forth.
To beat
some other day?
Perchance? No,
here in hand
lies victory. With
feathered tail,
and slender shaft,
barbed tip,
and heart,
and all
aghast.