When I wished for wings,
I thought about how wonderful
a life of flight would be,
to soar upon the winds of chance,
above me only sky,
beneath me lonely seas.

To have and hold a solitude
of higher heights of silent flight
to see, as birds do, spectrums wide
of loftier magnitudes.

But then,
with strains of minded seasons
and refrains of better sense,
I find within myself, a reason
for the feathered absence
upon my back.

For, were I flying upon this clouded atmosphere,
I fear that hearts of biterness, in blinded rage,
might attack the marvel of my altitude
upon which I should spew a stream
of reversed, tainted humility,
as one expels a poisoned arrow.

Therefore, I am grateful
that, for flight, I have no method physical.
For,
were I able
I might never
fly within again.