like a feather floating in the atmosphere
waiting to fall and rest next to a willing soul
who will pick it up
and treasure it
for the beauty that is
delicate and fragile in a way
that only one can handle and
receive.
but irony is pulling the strings
and pushes the wind to places that are far from destinies
reach
- or so it may seem.
round and round we go
in a sad dance of mystery
shall we ever stop?
does anyone know?