Arrows

Text messages soar like fledged arrows,

piercing mirrored hearts of two spiteful beloved.

Mud flung fields of blood are churned,

as the fear of defeat, in each army burns.

Conversation's combat climaxes, as one side retreats.

Yet, the other follows limping, but swiftly on their feet.

Each heart is a peacock of arrows collected,

both drenched with a pain

that, in pleasure,

they had erected.

Each feathered missile is wedged

critically deep,

strategically shot

so that their lover would weep.