Today, I cannot fly;
My wings are heavy.
They drag on the ground behind me like anvils,
Iron-stiff and slung low.
My back and chest ache to carry them,
Lungs burning with every step.
My wings are battered and leave a trail of feathers in their wake–
A downy wound in the dirt.
And freely bleed as I lurch along the road.
But with every ragged breath I take, I can think of just two things:
Though today I cannot fly,
At least I still have wings.