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Those Wings Upon My Back

How must it be to live life not knowing there were wings upon your back?

Never used, never stretched, withered and atrophied over a lifetime of unuse.

It aches to think of them, so think of them I do not.

Sometimes though, sometimes, in the dark reaches of my weary sleep, I see them spread out catching the wind beneath them as I soar over the earth.

I hear the wind in my ears, the warmth of the sun on my back.

I awake with tears upon my pillow, wings no more than a dream I cannot bear to look at.

And so I forget.

Long have my feet been chained to the ground beneath me, long have I trudged and muddled about this mortal coil.

The thought of wings becomes more and more infrequent through the passage of time, though when I find myself on my deathbed, cold and alone, I see them one last time.

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