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The Plumage Malady
A feather fell--
Tumblers twirled slowly
To devolve-
Finger-faces.
Around this world
Of out stretched nails.
They were pure red with mere seconds,
Though tendrils fumbled for periods more.
We could fit in between-
Folder-bindings.
These were concealed
By blue branches--
Because the skies had
Tripped over.
And wishes were skulked
From memory lane.
This--
This where
Only space existed.
I should have worn my stilts.
