FEATHERS AND HEADSTONES

I stood upon an ageless, arid plain
when ancient Aristotelian echoes blew a gust
across my face.

They rose into the air
becoming golden feathers, so incandescent and lustrous,
shining in the light from a dawn's hint of sagacious hues.

Then I grasp in desperation at the air driven plume
hoping it would lift me above my destitution.
But when at last I did possessed them
the weight of their gold sunk me deeper into the sand.

Stubbornly, I clung to my prize
ever discovering they were more a millstone
than idealism's lofty chance to finally soar.

Suddenly, a voice with an ominous, ecumenical tone
boomed from a nearby cemetery's cross-shaped headstone.
It suggested in a pontification of pure surety
that the weight of the headstone if made by its design
was less than any feather.

But, alas whatever flight it offered
could only bring wings of breath
when you no longer had lungs.

Dropping the feather and ignoring the headstone's invitation
I content myself to walk upon the hard soil that pulsated
dreaming of finding some boundless and luminous horizon
which didn't end in a gray, foggy precipice.