Ode to a Raven's Feather

This esoteric thing, clinging
Tentatively to blades of grass,
But not to life, which it denies,
And which life denied it always;
This cryptic dark raven’s feather,
Fragile and velvet to the touch,
Like a cheap dress from the nineties,
You, raven’s feather have seen it
Seen it all through your avian,
Your master, though not anymore.

Now you are light and unrestrained,
And in this quest you have succumbed
To this—messy and wild, like the
Idled drawings of a toddler.
How crazed at nature’s mistreatment
A caregiver who cannot care,
You were scared in the long black nights,
Though nothing would try to harm you
Ominous as you are, like death.
The crows laugh at you for you are
A poor lost soul, swimming in Styx.
Free? You may be but do not feel.
Fighting for what never will be,
Negotiation back into
A home, at last, again, once more
But this is a substance free dream
A play written by a demon.
Because you were not made to last.

And as you lie here on the ground
You make to scream but there’s no sound.