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A feather falling, softly whisping,
Skimming past your hair and ears,
Drifting downwards ‘till it nears
Your neck, so slightly tense, yet warm.
Your mouth, smiling, yet clearly torn.

The feather falls to water, glistening,
Swims away past rocks and dirt,
Your eyes watch it, until, quite curt,
It floats once more upon the breeze.
Whisked away above the trees.

Nearby are two wings, undulating,
Flapping with a discrete sound
Until a bird, with one huge bound
Leaves its thin branch, flapping also.
This visual dance is flowing, slow,

But it is all clearly pulsating.
Sweetly ebbing and alive,
A sight to be romanticised.
And yet, my hands reach to your face,
Cover your eyes, remove this place.

Your current sight is just frustrating,
The pinky blackness of my hand
A wall between you and the land.
A cruel gift and a cruel reminder:

Your sight is a beautiful thing
You’ll never get to see.
Any constructive comments would be appreciated :)

By the way, I know 'whisping' isn't actually a word.
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infallible Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2008  Hobbyist Writer
The form of it does take a moment to get used to, but once I'd got my tongue round it (metaphorically speaking), I really liked how it flows - it works out very nicely like this. The last two lines do feel like they yank you out of the previous flow, but I think that actually adds emphasis to the last point: that after all these lovely "sights" and such elegant, beautiful imagery in the previous stanzas, the person is suddenly 'blinded' to them all against their will.

For something you say still needs revising, this is a pretty solid and polished piece of writing. :D
MaskedVengeance Featured By Owner Jan 30, 2009
Hey, sorry for the stupidly late reply. Thank you very much. :)
infallible Featured By Owner Feb 4, 2009  Hobbyist Writer
No problem :)
MaskedVengeance Featured By Owner Feb 4, 2009
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Submitted on
December 17, 2008
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