Wingshot

When did I become such a casual murderer in this wilderness where I am, at best, a tourist. 

In my own hands heartbeats and shudders go silent, life escaping between my pressed fingers like a mysterious vapor. 

Where do I find the strength to kill something so perfect and delicate, after just being introduced. 

What conceit allows this fumbling ape to harvest speckled jewels from the sky, whose final grace is to close their eyes as they die.

The lion can not love the gazelle in this way. 

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