Poetry

 

 

FEATHERS
Hunted by the darkness, it cracks my paint, peals my skin.     FEATHERS

 

QUIET SPIRIT

Hovering there.

Out skirts of my consciousness.

The forest is humid and thick.

 Shadows dark.

I wander, my fingers brushing the trees, rough crevasses, deep gullies in bark.

Soft green moss, tickles my fingers, pearls of dew cling to silken threads.

My foot steps muffled by leaves long dead.

You wait.

I take

Time.

Your breath is the mist I breath.

Gathering dew drops in my hair, on face and neck.

You watch, coolness of the shadows raise my skin.

I stop for a rest.

I sleep.

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