Now That's What I Call Blue

Down to my hollows.
Targetting my sorrows.
A storm of pointed arrows
to murder my tomorrows.

Bunched pricks acrew.
The sticks run through,
and blood like syrup drips dark blue.

They mass in thunder's cry above.
A church of deadly shots of love.
The pain ecstatic, passion fierce.
Cracked bone and wood and feathers pierce.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.