one thousand feathers,
a bird does not make,
less there are wings
a heart and beak
and such a deseperate
want to fly,
into the upper reaches
of the bluest, widest sky.
without these things,
it is just a pile of dreams,
lost and forgotten.
no, it seems to be,
one thousand feathers
in a pile, is a sad
and sorry thing.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
one thousand feathers,
a bird does not make,
less there are wings
a heart and beak
and such a deseperate
want to fly,
into the upper reaches
of the bluest, widest sky.
without these things,
it is just a pile of dreams,
lost and forgotten.
no, it seems to be,
one thousand feathers
in a pile, is a sad
and sorry thing.
Request permission to use this poem