The Swans

I can not look at her the same way again. No. No! I can not. This creature that was once composed of rarites and purites, a white swan, now. Now has fallen victum to the sin of lust upon her own flesh.

Feathers that were as white as her skin have grown black. Black like the night itself, black as the hallowness of her eyes. They have grown black as to show the void of darkness and shame. A flaw in something perfect. A void that is and was created by lust!

And yet as I aimed to capture her, I could not. I could not slay the beast that was the Swan. Because I loved her. To take her in my arms again I would and slay no more I would, to have her free from a prison of feather and beak.

How I loath that vile creature! How I loath its haunting beauty! How does its lack of remorse not consume it to waste on its own? Can it not feel its own self distruction? And yet, I am to blame. She came, the Swan, and bewitched me with its silky wings of black lace.

How was I so blind to see? How? I was caught up hunting after a lie, a laugh. With her I felt it was right but I abandoned what was true! Now not an angel would cry for me because of what I have done. I am a fool. Still now I can see her slender body, twisting and turning before me in a gentle plea of one so innocent. One so lost. But then she came, from the hells below and tempted me. And I succumbed to it. Like a fool, I did. She waltz and dove before me with such compeling grace.

And... what now? I see her! She! The one so pure and innocent, perfection in its self this creature! Yet she acts as if she is blind to me. What has happend?

And, as she dove off into the sea, I saw it. I saw that purity and sin were one in the same. I saw that the Swan was a flaw and perfection in itself.

They were one and the same.