Fawns so pure,
So simple and precious
That they look almost unreal,
Out of place in this cold, unforgiving world.
With their spots, white as snow,
Laid delicately against the trueness of gold,
They seem almost begging to be free,
To be wild and free,
As they were once,
And are meant to be.
Free of this place and its hatred,
Free of this burden they must bear.
They wish only, it seems to say in their eyes,
To be free of pain, and to fear no more.
Their manner shows
That they fear what is surrounding them,
These fawns can see what their world has become.
The look saddened by the course life,
Which once was pure nature,
Has taken.
Not only for themselves,
But even for their enemies,
They seem to have mercy.
When something, so innocent,
Looks into your eyes,
You dare not break the connection,
For you can feel them peering into you,
Peering past you to something deeper.
They are always the hunted,
Never the hunter.
They are
Persecuted.
No soul,
I’ve yet encountered,
Has been able to grasp,
Even the concept,
Of my deep bond with fawns,
Both new and grown alike.
Not one soul
Has realized that,
As a struggling Christian,
I often feel
Just as a fawn does.
A fawn of God.
And I’m saddened,
By the course of life,
By what my world has become.
Age 15