A feather is the fleur-de-lis of freedom, and with that in mind they become the portholes to expression as man discovers quills and ink. As the black pen becomes embedded in our damp, liquid soil — embedded in the murky waters of our mind — the clouds rumble into being and the cerebellum balances our physical self whilst our unconsciousness battles with sepia thoughts.
A battle fated to crumble into dust lest the symbol of freedom becomes liberated from its confinement.
Yet, in man’s selfish desire to hold on by the molecules of a blade to that which he longs for — what he self righteously, egotistically believes is his — humanity’s Jealousy swallows Freedom and no longer does the feather belong in the air.
Expression dies, and left is only a tinted fenestra to the rainbow that was once beheld in the sea of thoughts. Melancholy becomes a word, and the black ink permeates through the earth — a feather’s eternal tears that’ll fuel the darkness ’til sempiternal times comes to a close.