There is no margin of error here
Between the linen that lays inline with your eyelash
And for the first time I fear the warning
That the wind sounds in sync via silence
There is no margin of error here
Between the linen that lays inline with you
Release and stay on target
To find the error in follow through
There is hope between the knock and the strand
If I can mock the love in your
(practiced hand)
Your lips bring alive the tune of empty bowstrings
Laden with the love of such a practiced hand
Waiting with the hope to hear the arrows sing
Waiting with the hope that we're coming back for more
Make a sound that's worth its meaning
And make us proud if that's what you live for
How those lips run oh so smooth and
How they've taken us nowhere
You could split these arrows all you want
With the pride of a marksman
And strike upon the narrows, but for what?
If they are not your target