Figures

It does doesn't it?

Burning arrows with a song,
That in a sense is innocence,
Let words tangle
Their tongues, wayward and bitter
And brittle little sways of wet muscle
And breath that smells all too tell-tale
Of assumption.
So archers stay their tendons hard
To listen for the siren's song
And pray that none of them has left the music
As so many tend to do.

Author's Note

Ignore the monotony