Morph

The Buffalo and the Swan
the barrel of a shotgun
against fine walls of china
the delicate urn of silk
strung together fine metal
spun threads extending through hooks
taking the weight spread it out across the surfaces

the well wined barrel of a man
and the fine boned china doll
who half his age looked older
in his fabric eyes his beginning
was kept a secret in the absence of time
the silence broken by disambiguation
when forgotten last and disintegrating
they matter not to those who
play the deadly game
one foot wrong
reflects on the architect
a natural selection too far
an opportunity of death
as if it were the sole path
to a promotion carried out
impress the firm with that mouth
that was her final achievement

The loud report of a gun
cracking the air with
a sudden rushing at the target

it had missed
and the creature took another step further away