Everything is but a feather.
And life must be the tree;
hide through pain and frightening weather
or learn to fly and be set free
Prints on the ground, a flightless thing
drawn low, head tilted up;
a useless beak, no tune to sing
pennies thrown into a cup
A plummet to the ground did fall
a heart torn up to bits;
but stories are nothing at all
if the fabric has no rips
So see, soul child so full of dark,
and remember what you heard;
Everything is but a feather,
But feathers make a bird.
YOU ARE READING
Feathers: A Book of Poetry
PoetryA pencil is the spotlight of a soul. It tells them its okay to overflow. It tells them ideas are art, and that the best ones are masterpieces. Feathers is a collection of poetry by me to convey the beauty and undeniable strife of the world, and emot...
