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Poem

I had a pair of the most beautiful wings,
But I grew bored with flying
And so I never used them,
Never exercised them or
Stretched them out to feel the
Sun on my back,
That warm glow that lately
I had been too accustomed to the cold
To appreciate as I used to.

I got so used to seeing the world
As a bird would,
Looking down through the clouds,
My heart held somewhere between
Heaven and the endless rapture of
A thousand sunrises and a thousand sunsets,
But when I had been grounded long enough,
My memory of this grew dim.

I would always hear,
“Your wings are so lovely!”
“How ever did you get them?”
“I would just die to have a pair!”
I shrugged all these words off, replying,
“Yeah, I suppose they’re OK,”
Never once realizing the myriad of gaces
Crisscrossed with envy, jealousy, want, and desire.

I had a gift in my wings,
I was special
I was every man’s fantasy
And every woman’s dream
But the longer I had them,
The less special they felt
And the less I desired
To be among the clouds,
Close to the warm embrace of the sun
Where I belonged.

I spent so much time on the ground,
Not caring,
Not remembering,
Forgetting…
So that one day I reached back
To feel one of my wings,
Just to make sure they were there,
And felt it crumble to dust between my fingers
And blow away on the breeze
That I could have been riding on.

Now I wish I could catch an updraft
Or take a nap on a cloud
Or soar as close to the sun
As my strength would permit me
But it’s too late for that now;
I am a man without wings
I was born to fly but stopped caring
And so I doomed myself to forever walk
In the shadows that I could have been soaring above.

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