feather

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