the feather is cold, dry and virgin to present time's inkwell.
It's embellished in a reoccurring frozen thought.
I see emotions and their leaking auras ascend from it's shell,
and I decide to reach into the darkness to exclaim the current state's requiem
Attempting to explain the dirty slated ways of them,
because I'm caught in this cycle of looking back to...
"now and then" but...
I remind myself why the feather ever became neglected in the first place.
I sit justifying it to save face amongst the crowd of un-attentive peers.
The soul always felt destined to shape a seer but I still stand before you today...
incompetent...
writer's blocked, soul locked, lacking all accomplishment...
There is me.
That was then
This is now.
So now i've re-learned that optimism is this epic monument that requires maintenance on a daily basis.
and though I understand my brained is over staffed,
still...nothing ever seems to really get done.
So once again I let it go and leave nothing for those amounts to grow.
show and tell a green colored mask, show only black and royal blue,
and hope the sun lends an ear and maybe a vision too...
