Light-Lightening?-flashes, soul-stealing bright
Air soars, carrying imagination
The brain has returned but emotions are fretting
Against a world and lack of wings, indignation
Lacks freedom, lacks freedom, lacks freedom
Silver-grey wings two and a half times my height
Folded, rarely save for kingdom come
Drag the floor, unflight permitting.

Straight, straight up, a dive straight down
Feathers rustling, two rows down my back
Rushing wind, stomach left behind
Wings folded in a 'V' for attack
Ten feet from the ground, maybe two
I swoop out my wings, don't hit the ground
I swoop up in the air to white sky and blue
Curving wings don't stay with the world in a grind.

Back and chest muscles strain against wind
When the storm comes at hurricane rate
I stumble and tumble ten miles up
My wings shield the rain from my face, it's too late
To fly. I'm battered and torn. My wings
Shed rain like a duck. There's no end.
I circle, not flying, falling in rings
Bruised, but my wings are good, and water falls from a duck.

To fly, to fly, to fly fly fly fly fly fly fly fly
Rest briefly on the tip of Mt. Everest, I'm not cold
Cupid's wings are pitiful, Hermes needs sandals and a hat;
Angels of the One God, with so fine halos of gold,
Are not that beside me and my wings of grey.
I want to fly. All else will be nothing when I am on high.
I'll soar and I'll dive, the ache will go away.
I need to fly. It's as simple as that.

The thunder encircles and batters the cliff
Where I stand. Red mirrors echo blood and fire.
Rivers flow. Where are the mind and the soul?
The wings' owner croons, darkness envelopes the fire,
The mirrors are blinding and deadly.
We will climb to the highest of hows, whys and ifs,
Whos, whats, wheres, whens, shoulds, answered possibly.
The flying circling, mirrors crash, I fix on my goal.

It doesn't matter, the speeding train on rumbling tracks,
The deep sea waves crashing upon a rock.
The dive from this height is unbelievable.
Nothing that matters will mock.
Nothing that matters looks down from a height
Dreaming of family with and without cracks.
Some can soar, but none truly go into flight.
Nothing that matters makes purposeful trouble.

My wings silver-grey, so great and so perfect,
Turn slightly, altering course after time.
Those idiot gods, I'll give their boredom a feast
And rid the world of some of the grime.
My wings so new, so lucky, but mirrors
Are dangerous, and they can infect
A heart with thoughts which should sear.
Now the ground, and I am deceased.