My Bow

Upon pedestal of black, hints of silver
It sits, glistening.
Limbs, like rays of light sprout
From the body of deep blue.
The wind
It howls.
It is a wolf
One with invisible flesh
And bitter cold instead of teeth.
It remains upon that pedestal, in all its serenity
Shadows play beneath it, but no such dark ever touches the surface of the divine.
A lifeline of white holds the construct to a shape mimicking the crescent of the moon.
This bow
This is what it can be if left to rest.
Elegant
Graceful
Hollow and starving.
It is my hand that pulls it from the void within itself.
It is my body that finally let the shadows play across it.
And it is my mind, my will, that lets it show its true self
A self of force tempered by elegance
Of the ability to harm restrained by precision
And of potential it cannot reach in its lonesome.
Keyed to my soul, it has no other master
Without me, it would not stir from its throne over shadows
And it would have its spirit consumed by its pride