Nightlock

Shoulders yanked toward quiver
she slides through the forest like a knife
or is she just a ghost?

Not while there is an ounce of gray
in her eyes or a single human
left to love.

Left to defend.

Rook against rook, knight against knight
laying in wait to shoot at the machine
but no heart could foretell
what lay under the mud.

When it's time, the arrow stretches in her palms,
an elastic dancer on the swell of a bird's note.

But she keeps the best weapons for herself:
her tongue is wise and her throat is a whip
cracking hearts with a defiant song.

A folded waterfall slithers down her back,
but no sense of innocence can be contained in a braid.

Forget the games.

This is war.