The Feather
A rage of weather is tethered to my ribs,
held by a soulful feather, silent as a dead foe.
It will totter to tatters but
always get better, but
always gets wetter.
It is a feather that irks the ribs,
bothers the heart, lures the throat to a close, and
sucks damp air from between my fettered ears.
It is a feather that can never untether
this rage in my head or
else it would burn,
burn, burn
to a
crisp.
Copyright © Oona Griffin | Year Posted 2023
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