The Killing of Innocence

The birds' melodies echo through the woods,

the sun warms everything in her hands, motherly, as if her own.

The grass, tall, dense, hides what must be hid,

yet warps in the middle, as if something lays in her grip.

Something rests beneath the summer light,

curled small, folded into the hush of shade and safety.

A ball of fur, soft, as if just new,

fragile, as if innocence itself was born.

White spots scatter across its body like fallen petals,

its face calm with sleep — gentle, untouched,

as if it has never known anything else,

as if it has never known danger.

Soft, careful footsteps break the stillness,

the hush of leaves betrays an approach.

The fawn stirs, head risen in alarm,

little breaths uneven now,

a twitch of an ear, a tremor in its chest,

the gnawing of fate heavy.

The clearing sharpens.

The sun still glows, but another eye has found it —

red, unblinking, trembling in its circle.

The world holds its breath and awaits.

Innocence sways in the crosshairs,

a heartbeat away from silence,

and of fate, oh so cruel.

The bird song falters in worry.

The forest waits, silent, watching, knowing.

Somewhere, a finger steadies.

Somewhere, innocence lingers,

fragile as glass beneath a shaking hand.