this feather


this feather has a sad story
it is a lonely thing
It never had a single friend
and never took to wing
Though it looks quite life-like now
it hasn't got the spark
No fear no pain no happiness,
no light to fill the dark
But all alone its sits or stands
or lies I cannot tell,
I did not give it scenery
no bird from which it fell
It is itself anomalous
coming out of air
A shame I cannot pick it up,
but of course it is not there

Pictures are an awful thing
full of depth and wonder
but turn the page or just stand back
and intrigue falls asunder
They cannot feel their own despair,
they are not granted that
They are not given hope or joy,
they're lifeless, still and flat

This feather has a lonely life
for it cannot feel
It never was, nor will be,
it isn't even real.
It didn't flap or drop to floor
It was a thing of whimsy
It's simply there as it's drawn,
existence only flimsy.
It's on a page all on its own,
prided centre space
But pride can only last so long,
fear will take its place.
Solitude is nice for some,
no quarrels and no anger
But lifetimes pass while pictures dwell
on rusty wonky hangers.

My artistic blundering is not good,
the point was sorely missed
I didn't wait before I drew,
I did not think of this
I want to make things happier,
to bring some cheer, a smile
But what of my poor test-subject?
it I did beguile
It had no choice no skill no thought
no life to learn,
a moment caught

Trapped on paper, trapped by ink
Never changing, no heart to sink
It cannot feel its own despair,
I did not grant it that
I didn't give it hope or joy,
it's lifeless, still and flat.

This feather's non-existent life
could go up or down,
into a bin or on a fire
or to the Thames to drown
For the value of this thing
is what you bestow
it could be treasured a priceless gift
or cast aside so low

But if you were to decide
to go and throw it out
perhaps the wind will pick it up
and blow it all about
Then it will fly in true feather style,
floating on the breeze
and as it gains velocity
'twill flit with graceful ease

But what about the true despair
What became of that
This feather wouldn't feel its joy
It's lifeless still and flat

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©MMXX James Wordsworth