Swan Quills

If you must pluck these feathers from my wing
then let them be my tongues, to cry in pain
and utter songs that live swans never sing.

I'd have you feel the wounding, and the sting
of cold on naked flesh that will remain
if you must pluck these feathers from my wing.

A flightless swan's a shamed and broken thing
like shoreline flotsam stranded by the rain
and utters songs that live swans never sing,

abandoned by the wind. You'll see me cling
to earth, a slave in gravity's cold chain.
If you must pluck these feathers from my wing

then know these stolen plumes will only bring
you soul-death. You will walk among the slain
and utter songs that live swans never sing

until the bird and poet's suffering
unite in sad, compassionate refrain.
If you must pluck these feathers from my wing
you'll learn the songs that live swans never sing.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside