Like a feather, floating in the atmosphere,
waiting to fall and rest next a willing soul,
who will pick it up and treasure it
for the beauty that it is,
delicate and fragile, in a way that only one can handle
and receive
by irony that is pulling the strings
and pushes the wind to places that are far from
destiny
or so it may seem,
round and round we go,
shall we ever stop? does anyone know?