The Swan

The peaceful, humble beauty of a white lily drifting on reflective night hums a sweet melody of contrasting light. Trusting the darkness to be his throne and the moon of loneliness to crown his soft, unheard moan. I watch from bushes of scorn that mock him cruelly. His fragile crest is pierced by the thorn of rejection and bleeds its sorrows silently. The rejected jewels of nature are mourning for the king of the skies to raise his wings but he can't see beyond remembering and can't see past the thorn's stings. Oh, scarred heart of grace, spread strenght and flee with wild freedom unto priceless solace away from this desolate kingdom. Oh, jewel in creation's crown, look not to stirred reflection for it is mere perversion, a frown, of the white rose of perfection. Go now, leave behind only a legacy of despised beauty.