Plumes

The plumes came in the morning

Brown with a touch of white

They entered every pore

Every particle laden with guilt

My scarred concious

Raked by my long nails

Deep furrows like a mound on which goats play

The horns leave indelible marks

Is it not this that makes birds seem free

The shackles of societal expectations

swiftly discarded

Emerge the uncultured emancipated man