Desertion

I am adversity for the archer,

I am sawdust on his fingers.

Hopeless is he who holds 

the bow; his overt attempt

to hit the bullseye 

will be for naught.

He pulls back the string,

quivers uncontrolled

because I am now 

the controller.

Beads of sweat

fill his brow,

He sees the target

but it blurs--he

shakes his head, arches

his back to oust spasm.

His skill suddenly threadbare

and timid, lacking the luster

once so obvious to all.

He is not the man he

used to be, because

I am confidence

gone astray.