I who have a hollow shaft
I,
Who lilts with the barest surge of wind,
I... who has fallen from the
Grace of my comfort
And has nothing to lean back on... I...

I see the ink of many
Vibrant, loud and subtle
Colours that fly around
Colours that I reach out for
And write with.
And yet where
Is my ink?
Am I doomed to
Nonexistence?
And yet I
In my own essence
Gurgle, fluctuate,
Still finding my flow
Against the turbulence of
My mind fraught with
Dissociated thoughts.

And as the feather flows against
The winds
Swaying
Gently
My ink is of air
And world
And nature