Sparkatale

Heavy thunderous crash
Upon a victimized board
Targeted innocently
And beaten profusely.

In her hand
A trio of arrows
Poised for damage.
In her body,
A storm that rages
Looking to destroy.

Her arm tilts back,
And her eyes narrow thin.
With a soft cry from
Wires in her throat,
An arrow slices the air
Pierces its victim
Effortlessly.

The score is racking up
And the storm within
Flickers with new passion.
She yells again,
Hurls another assault.

With each throw,
Intensified strength.
Stumbling backwards
With her hidden power,
Her raging storm.

Each arrow becomes a reason
And every impact a response.
Faster and harder
The arrows rip holes into space
Decimating their targets
With force untold.
The aim becomes unsteady.
The storm within produces rain.

Her arm becomes tense with pain
And her sides light up and sting.
But she goes on,
Still wounded within,
Fighting the urge to break down.
The assaults become less intense.

Her lungs quiver after time
Body rocks with labored breathing.
The storm is settling,
And her body is weakening,
Wounded physically by the
Emotional rage
That brought her to this game.

But she's not playing.