The ring of failure
Quickly grows familiar.

Fingers, questing for the
Quiver, pricked by the wrong 

Point. Improper technique
Becomes old habit.

Soon the silence—of the 

That never quite reached
Or went dismally wide—

Nefariously notches
To strings of nightly thought.

Do you ever stop 
Aiming for perfect,

Perfectly content
With glancing the target?