A fearther of thought abandoned,
No longer to soar, dive or glide.
Now fallen away, discarded,
A molting of mind in its time.
Together, as one, it had climed,
Part of the process of searching,
Exalting with each garland won,
Its ego suppressed and sublime.
A twist of purpose has ruffled
The coat of sleekest conditions.
Quills of ideas are loosened
To drift in the wind, a mere mime
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