white
weightless
with an overcoat of grey
each tiny vein perfectly aligned
bar the bottom with its furry tendrils
rebelling the hundred-dollar hair-cut
styled along its gently curvaceous spine
thick at the base, thins to a pinpoint peak
an ever so elegant arc of fibrous fragility
when you glide down, you are so pristine
that I no longer cry for wings, I believe
I have everything I need, they warn me
that you’re dirty, but I see neither your
wild veins nor the darker undertones
of your shine, I vow to keep you
mine but am already grasping
at hollow quills
flighty futures
time, fleeting
and
fine