How Dare the Arrow Hope for No Blood

I looked at the ink inscribed on my skin,
Longbow-launched symbolism
Flying from within...

An arrow.
So easily bent to the whims
Of the wind,
so broken by pain
 And tainted by sin.
Specifically that sin
of which we all can confess
Freely
Or whilst under duress,
Hard-pressed
Against the surface of me.

This recent agony
Has changed my trajectory.
And again that sin
is something to which we all can lay claim.
When the archer took aim
We hoped it was at a target...
But it was a heart.
We were made to hurt and kill.
And that was not our transgression.
Our HOPE is the object of this confession.