understanding is another version of satisfaction,
a drug, a fix,
a convoy of congruency across the mirror’s focal points.
that must convey its carriage of conformity
from one half to the other
in order to fly,
an echo
that would not fallow the flow?
Is it, a struggle of a feather
to survive its yanking and flouting
in the cradle of air,
falling down with no acceleration?
Is it a determination that left all the feeling behind,
tearful clouds,
the only intent turning to rainbows
after the rain of heart feelings?
Or
is it understanding,
only when the feather lands,
and the floater sink?
