This arrow soars, ripping
through blankets of fog,
ablaze with garnet flares
and filled with deadly potential,
and yet is no more capable of a piercing
than the design of its crafter.
To the girl, black-haired and frail in the mirror,
I imagine what you may have been: the holder
of all the promise in your mother's eyes,
the fulfiller of your father's dreams.
A vicarious rag doll, destined for the soil.
Perhaps, following Charon's course,
I may discover the potential you left behind;
and yet, among the sickly waters, I remember
that we will all soon be as you:
a corpse in the hellish brine.
