Here, where I still stand,

a flower starts to bloom in my chest

and there’s a golden arrow in my hand

that draws blood, peels its petals from a strand.

I raise the tip in quiet unrest

from where I still stand.

Thirty days, thirty times stained red sand 

beneath my feet reveals the fruits of this test

and there’s a golden arrow in my hand.

Its violent protests planned

by my battered hands, I’m a lover possessed.

Here, where I still stand

an Oracle’s careless command

punctures, pinches straight through my breast

and there’s a golden arrow in my hand.

It grows, winds its way towards my shepherd’s demands

bursting beyond my skin, crimson, distressed.

Here, where I still stand

there’s a golden arrow in my hand.