Saggitarius

the hard ash wood of the arrow
is sculpted straight and narrow
fletched with care and eagle feather
flying straight in cold sharp weather

the four unshod hooves of sullied soul
and rough furred man half-whole
belie the hunters path, his bow
pulled back in silent wrath fingers below

the arsenal that all armor might be
pierced. fierce words for all to see
engaged in a constellation of
feelings -- yet, not one dare love.

oh you wretched stars, who proclaim
the destiny born with my cursed name
to be less, to be nothing, to be me
and yet... still a blessing, endlessly.