A pure white feather floated to the ground
it made no sound.
Was this from my guardian angels wing
comfort to me bring.
Picking it up felt really soft and so pure
now lonely no more.
Or was this just my active imagination
creating this sensation.
Hoping angels were watching over me
that I could not seed.
Maybe fantasy yet nice to think this way
comforting each day.
In truth simple a molted bird feather
but hope that lasts forever.
The Foureyed Poet.