An angel dropped one pound of flesh
Upon the surface of the altar,
Left us here to find a way
To look mortality in the eye.

And so it begins,
My finite wings exposed in budding mirror,
Reflected bodies in the glass cased fragment of Alive.

I toss a sole white feather in the air and wait for it to fly--
Gradually it trickles down as if it were flapping new wings.

And so I trickle, eke into my skin
My path oddly woven and shaking
Searching for a way to grasp
The way things are,
The way we''ll be.

But plucked feathers only land upon the gravel where we walk.
The scraps of our existence fall into the morning dew.