To Eros

An ode in tercets.

The marksman knows his arrow's course
and sees it strike its mark so true
to pin it firmly to the ground

Your heat is a relentless force
compelling me to cling to you
our heartbeats are the only sound

In passion's realm you rule as king
each heart is there for you to win
but you have stolen mine alone

I listen to your whispering
and must give in to sweetest sin
which Aphrodite only would condone