Wings

WINGS




The hopeless most often wish for wings,
Light and airy feathered things,
To whisk them softly to faraway dreams,
Where their troubles are melted by moonbeams.



They fear the most,
Being forever lost,
Among those who can boast,
Of lives worth a toast.



Troubled not are their thoughts of never waking,
From dreams of snow always flaking,
Of sunshine never breaking,
And of love forever sating.



Yet each new day brings naught,
Of wings or else they’ve sought,
Nor relief from what they’ve wrought,
Only dreams of wings never brought.