We are but fickle fellows,
like feathers that blow
at the beckoning of the breeze
and know not where we land.
We are the folly of fluttering fancies;
a collection of coincidental connections
that we cannot create, keep or control.
I found you once in a far flung field
and fought to find the freedom
to forge in you forever but wicked winds
wound my weakness in greater gales
and I lost my grounding in that garden,
never mine, never thine, never ours,
the petals perishing on prized plateaus
where passion never played to pleasure.
We are fellows of fluttering feathers,
too feeble to fight the forces
that blow us briefly onto bodies bare
and bring us back from that beauty
for fear we might one day
find the force to forge our own flight.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly