I can smell them now,
The fire eats its way through
The stem
The root,
Licking the soft skin of white plummage
Ashes begin to ride the wind from my hand
And the scent of blood and a lake
Begin to rise to my nostrils
I hold the feather up to my eye,
As the orange beast crawls its way down
Destroying and cleansing the path it takes
Why do I burn the feathers ?
Why do I destroy the skin of an animal ?
To know how it feels
To know the skin, cover, identity...
Is an illusion
Easily burnt and scattered
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