Watching the feather get blown around,
it makes noise so quiet you hear no sound.
Thinking how it got in front for me to see,
was it picked or ripped from a bird in a tree.
How far away was its start to be blown,
to how many eyes was the feather shown.
Was its drop first from the skies above,
its colored and not from a symbol of love.
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Author:
Maplespal (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 11th, 2025 14:23
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
Offline)
Comments2
Makes you wonder
A very beautiful poem with such meaning. Well written. Well rhymed and so felt.
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