I soar through the sky,
Darting between treetops,
Shooting, up, into the clouds
And out again.
Still, I lose them,
My beautiful, black feathers.
They just keep falling, fleeing,
Stripped from my skin.
I’m sure it follows them.
How else could it find me?
Eyes able track my swift body
Through the air do not exist.
I can feel it gaining.
I’ve heard it called “Fear,”
But I do not think this name
Suits it so well as “Past.”
Perhaps I cannot outrun
Such an apparition.
Still, there is the issue
Of my feathers.
The faster I fly,
The faster they fall out,
Floating like volcanic ash.
How many pieces
Of myself can I lose
Before there is nothing left
To hide my repulsive skin
From the world and myself?
I have not the time
To fly down and reclaim them,
Were I even to know
Where they had landed.
Perhaps if I retraced my steps,
I could find them one by one,
But eventually I would come
Face to face with Past.


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