High he sat over the water,
Slowly reaching his hands into the slaughter below.
They were gentle, in their execution,
Almost a sullen feline grace.
It caught his eye, suddenly,
The parable he saw in his reflection.
"This is not mine", he reasoned
With a predicatively waning resolve that had seen better days.
A slow, sweeping glance around and the sight
was revealed to Him,
The sky, yellow with surrender, red with spite,
Merging seamlessly with the ooze crawling out of what was once blue with life.
He was the only one still sitting,
With the rest scattered around, still and seemingly comfortable.
A final laboured effort to look up and exhale with guilty relief,
He afforded himself a smile, before collapsing into the ground.
Still and seemingly comfortable.
The horizon was a straight line, devoid in any indentation.
