She is an outcast within those she created.
The difference of skin to feather.
Swift wings float across the sky where her arms can't reach. Like ballerinas they glide through the air, taunting their creator.
She stands alone, just out of reach
Unable to grab ahold and soar. To fly through the clouds to where she belongs.
Instead, she is stuck. Held down by an invisible force, like nails in her feet.
Patiently she waits. Her time will come, soon if not now. Tomorrow if not today.
She knows this. She understands.
Different from those who didn't. Those who needed to go.
Those who were not ready to wait, for the birds to be sent for them, to carry them home.
Different to them she understands.
Her time is near, as she could hear, the flutter of feathers pass by her ear.
Feathers she made. Calmly she lay.
The maker of swans, by night and by day.