The Marksman?

"The Marksman?"


When you're a little left of center, the target's often missed.
Whether you've thrown darts, or arrows, or even witty lines.
You hit nothing. And so you get nothing.
Or so the story goes. For the sad, mistaken marksman.
The broad side of barns, shine untouched.
Like floating lunar lights.
Knowing that the fool within their range, will never pierce them right.
And now there is irony in the plight.
See? Every time the mark is missed, it stirs a gentle breeze.
Proving the only thing between us, dear, is truly air and opportunity.
But that's nothing new, really.
My quiver's running empty, though.
But I could say that for many things of mine.
Such as my heart. My faith. My patience.
Hell, even my sanity.
Because all I've done with these attempts at winning you,
Was incidentally hit the bullseye on your vanity.
Look!
A grown, inflated ego. Just begging to be burst.
But I have to grit my teeth and bear the weight,
For there's more than tension in my bow, that needs releasing first.