Aim

One eye is closed, the other wide, Absorbing every twitch and sway. There is no place for them to hide, When victory is an inch away.

The lens is etched with bronzen lines, The virtuoso’s heart is cold and slow. He reads the subtle, snaggy signs, Of how the municipal's wind flow.

He is the ghost of battles past, A relic with a sharpened sight. This sequence is the target’s last, Before the coming of the night.

The thunder breaks the glitching air, A perfect arc of copper fire. The objective is settled there, The ending of a dark desire.

— A poem by Habile Imprint. Dedicated to a year of bliss and polished boost.