
Yellow is the Archer’s ambrosia.
The Archer’s addiction,
Fear and breath.
Yellow like the burning centre.
Pulsating light,
Wild, careless, timeless.
A shining, immovable speck.
O torturous speck!
The colour of success.
Almost obsessive –
But too beautiful,
Too precise.
Yet the Archer is a taunted soul,
Plagued by perfection
And merit
And a need for control.
The target offers
Relief.
Five colours
But I see one.
A one shade
Two-dimension
Microcosm.
It is not perfection,
It is yellow.
A numbing alleviation –
If I feed my perfectionism into the sport,
Then perhaps I can assuage its hold on me.
But the hunt follows.
Every creature
That I have missed
Haunts me
And lurks
In my speckled mind,
My darkened dreams.
Until I am dreary
And forget.
With the breath
Before each arrow’s flight,
Relief is brought to me.
Slightly, steadily
I let it kiss my hand
Then run from me.
The human sees too many colours.
So I see one
Heavenly –
But this pride is my nemesis,
Because now I fear colour,
All colour but yellow.
Like rubbing velvet between
Calloused fingertips,
Like saline on a wound.
The arrow in the yellow
Is remedy.
Obsessed by yellow
Like the honeybee.
I now understand
Why Plath loved her beekeeping;
A remnant of sanity
In a swarm of potential pain.
The arrow holds a similar role in me –
A fire that gives my foggy mind
A pretence
To believe.
A chance at sanity.
Rendering me Olympus,
Artemis,
O holy God of the Hunt.
Ah the façade!
Hiding in my successes,
Giving myself titles
To forge my identity
And make it less fragile,
More decorated,
Less exposed.
Always told but never shown.
I never ask –
If you see the arrow in the yellow
It must mean that
The Archer does not need your assistance.
They look in praise,
But the Archer is plagued
By the pale stain
Of the inevitable pain
Of the look away
From one wrong shot –
Any colour but yellow
Is failure,
Reputation loss.
A well-hidden hubris –
Hiding in dead centre,
Plain sight.
Hiding in the colour yellow.



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