Wings are a tension
In your shoulders you can’t relieve.
They are an itch like no other.
Wings are a weight
You can never have lifted.
That will never lift you.
Wings are the space
On your body that can’t be filled.
That creates a void within.
Wings are a burn
That calls for action.
And leaves you paralyzed with yearning.
Wings are missing limbs
That you never had.
As crucial as a heartbeat.
Wings are what I can never have.
Wings are what I need.
My, my, my, I seem to have a thing going for free-form at the moment. Apologies for all lovers of more traditional poetry.