cold water plumage, my suit is made of rusted iron, my wooden wingspan stretches out with creaks and groans like the slow opening door of a haunted house, oh do my floorboards speak, they speak with each treacherous footstep, a kindred spirit to leave my body ravished with fear and cowering in the corner of my mind where light doesn't hit and the padded walls of blood and arteries are tangled round the musculature...
blonde haired angel with a young attitude flies down with those feathery light wings, so assured they are not fragile- as fragile as a silk woven manuscript from the 1700's.
science and nature writing.
poetry about wings.
