the proverbial lost swan

Sidesweeping footsteps of a prancing swan,
precariously pigeon-toed but elegant still,
say what you will of the chance he lost,
when he wayward waddled southward cause his legs were bent.

What jokes have been wrought upon the forlorn swan,
his only hope in memory of worlds he once knew well,
teacup kettle, mushroom canopies, freckled
and horn snout trout. The taste of morning dew on night parched lips.

So lost, he pursued sliding ways along the floor
Not able to tell of treachory beyond the doors
When he lost his crafty ways and hope had left him,
Not once lost in dreams, he survived in the grim.