The smooth bow was bent by the ageless and practiced hand and almost carelessly the string slipped from his deadly fingers. With the wispier of the wind the reckless blow flew with its poisoned head intent on the mark. Such a bolt could not have been more crafty played as it struck it mark and plunged passionate into the blackest of hearts.
What seemed a black heart of stone broke forth into such an ardent blaze that all the fires of the earths blazing core could not come close to compare. Like children thoughts run gleefully through the most prepared and ordered of minds. The heart that beat only its own somber rhythm now beats to the rhythm of another or keeps time with the wings of thoughts that scatter just out of reach.
But what trenchancy that bolt plays as it cast this soul to become the harbinger of it's own ghastly nightmare from years past. How is it that we all become what we fear most? At the moment of triumph is the seed if not the root of all our misery. The fear of what such a moment might bring keeps our path so carefully guarded between the peeks of ecstasy and the pits of despair that fill our lives.
No longer or nevermore? the question is left the the raven and the bent bow to decide.
