he spent years
a lowly pauper
begging at the
doorway to
the house of eros
threadbare spirit
tattered yet
he remained devout
despite the agonies
let loose in a
storm of quivering
heart shaped arrows

shaking a bowl
of unread declarations
existing in the
blindspot of divinity
in service of
sanguine serendipities

a beggar on the
steps to the house
of eros muttering
somewhere between
prayer and cataclysm
indifferent to
the piteous stares
doggedly determined
to force her to
appear fully formed
from his dreamshatter
as the arrows rain
downdowndown again


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