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.