Bronzed fingers reached out towards the lily

There are a killer’s hands ]

The swan was alone, and unsuspecting

She glided through the pond avoiding the lillies that grew on the water

She was the lily in a way. White and pure.

 

She was beautiful. He was a killer.

His shot, his arrow

Pierced her body

Causing her scream, her splash, her death. 

He caused the fall.

The fall from beauty

The fall from purity.

The fall from grace.

As the swan fell, so did her

Life buzzed around him in the pond

Flowers and fish made homes

Mosquitos full of life and stolen essence

Darted around him buzzing in his ears

Asking him why

 

He was no longer pure

A monster in the form of a man

The swan and the lily. White and lovely. 

Two commodities 

He stole from life

 

How would he be taken from life?

If he was taken in that moment would the forest absorb him?

Would the pond welcome him into its cooling embrace?

He could back as a lily. Only to be ripped from his home.

Roots begging to remain. Its destruction

Its violence.

 

Or he could come back as a swan.

Elegant and gentle.

Only to be taken from life

Stabbed and killed for sport

A monster like him

 

If he died in that moment

That day. Would he come back as a mosquito?

A thief and a burden.

If he died in this moment

Would he come back at all?