Death is just a pretty way to say murder,
Because I killed it
without much thought.
On the window screen,
wings wrapped and resting,
pure white and harmless.
Birdsong sunlight and nature on the other side,
what I had come for.
I’ve killed plenty in my life.
Smack wipe and move on.
Does that make me a murderer in their world? Or a God?
White, folded, sleeping.
It wasn’t the stuff of quick work, had to smack it a few times, carapace cracking and golden innards on the screen, wet work afterwards.
Less easy to kill a harmless beauty, less easy to forget that cracking shell.
Is there a God holding the memory, however faint, of my breaking shell?
The Quiet Fury 