It was not Cupid’s Arrow
That struck him down.
It was Cupid’s IV drip.
A prick to deliver the sustenance
he needed to go on.
–
The slow trickle of feeling.
A steady dosage of affection,
Sensibly prescribed,
That writhes atop his skin
Like morphine.
–
It wasn’t Cupid’s arrow
With all it’s vulgar sharpness.
It was Cupid’s Anadin.
Take two in the morning
And blunt those human pains.
–
It wasn’t Cupid’s arrow
Tearing a golden wound.
It was Cupid’s suture,
Knitting back together
The gaping relics of
A life, till then, misspent.
