I was ready made for grief.

to live an ode to a common thing,
     this elegy to peace.

and on the days that I feel nothing,
     I torment the stillness behind my eyes
because feeling is proof of living.
and I so badly want to be alive.
     to dig deep in the scar garden,
     to excavate my hollow pit,
     to sow a lifetime of memories
     of being just out of reach.

it is my only souvenir from this life
     that I will to buckle under the weight
     of just

one

more

feather.