A Featherless Child.

The silhouette of a featherless child; an etch-a-sketch of a skyline tickling bold brown arms, the length of his burning hair. There were pockets where dreams sometimes slipped through. He sees them, as discarded pennies or blackened wads of somethings, choking lifelessly on the sidewalk. He sees hope in the last breath of wild, honest color from the mouth of a can of spray-paint; the sigh of contentment a masterpiece makes when it's been completed, before it gathers dust and wades in the casualties of criticism.

So he stoops in black chucks; exhales a type of soul to the sky, where it drifts and dusts lightly the rooftop. It leaves a permanent signature, and dries in the caress of fading sunlight before smiling his smile to giggling stars. A featherless child can grow wings through his fingers. Rooftop masterpiece and stars sing to eachother, *A featherless child can grow wings*...

And the featherless child sleeps.

An impatient, gentle morning ravages his eyelids and beckons the bubbling wakefulness from the depths of copper bits like gold and blackened, forgotten mysteries. He stands, and circles the bright image of teenage clarity his lungs and breath gave birth to. Satisfied with the lifeblood of artfulness open to a wrinkled white tank, and staining beautifully those bold, brown arms, he jumps to the clouds and lands in the street. A legacy of wings rejoice behind him, and the rooftop masterpiece laughs at the sun and awaits the stars to sing again...

*A featherless child can grow wings through his fingers*...