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Rated: E · Poetry · Fantasy · #1995803
I have wings.
I noticed them one day when I was in the shower;
two flaps of minor skin amid each underarm recess.
And it raised some concern yet nothing close to panic;
a cyst or some such thing--you know the skin is prone to odd.
Mindful I stayed of skin, psoriasis and blackhead,
yet underneath each arm began another part of me.

As far as I know I’m not an angel,
nor any creature home in the air.
I am mostly English, Scotch and Welsh,
an earthy and conservative sort of guy.
When I was young I did imagine,
about the powers I could have.
Now it seems I have something unique,
I feel the power that has grown in me--
one thing I’ve never had.
Strangest thing, I’ve become...
someone with wings.

They grew and winged was I, counter to evolution;
beyond the drift of gene, beyond mutation now and then.
But I had full control and so I flapped with vigor;
two wings in middle age--you know it’s weird to be a bird.
Mindful I watched my height, it was like treading water;
yet it required more of me--the air is not as dense.

I flap my wings the ground is receding;
now suddenly I’m able to fly.
I am still the same sweet person inside;
the Earth pulls, yet over it I abide.
As I am aware I have a power;
it lets me rise above the ground.
But in truth I think they’re specious wings
because I am alone--and all alone,
the world is incomplete.
Strangest thing, I’ve become...
weary of wings.

34 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
June 11, 2014

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