Filled to the top with fear...

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The flower and the feather

together in a sack

hardly touching one another

peer forward, never looking back


Baggage; heavy on the shoulders, stuffed to the brim


 The cut flower, no water

it's softness unrefined

urgent, sweetness is all it knows

has no time to be undermined


Vane; the path to the sky these days is looking grim


The plucked, pretty pennaceous

known for beauty and light

once floated so serenely, a shame

no longer lifting, giving flight


Bloom; no time for the feather, lest it wilt on a whim


Yet still, in the sack they sit

Camouflaged, delicate

traversing the land, imminent

neither aware that they're different