In every wing there is a feather
in every inch, infinite ways to measure;
in every crease, the mark of a fold;
in every sunrise, the times of old.
In silent, vain delight
I stir with fragrant cues.
Against the weight of unknown might
I surrender what I have to lose.
Bid thee gay, bid thee light,
soaked in rays of happenstance sights,
within walled up fragile thoughts
I tremble at this life’s looming cost.