Swan Song

Seven white swans stretch their pretty necks

Under the guillotine. 

They dart out, and in.

Daring a drop, 

Chasing a thrill,

Sharing a prayer.

They won’t be swans forever—

And must preen while pretty 

And primp while pretty

And pleasure while pretty.

Day labors and gives birth to bewitching night

And isn’t she perfect?

White birds beam against an inky lake,

Stars spinning in a pure black sky.

The season screams for a song,

Until dulcet tones spill over spread feathers.

The music beats with wing beats,

And it is easy to forget who holds the rope.

The first feather falls,

And the blade follows.