WINGS

I envy eagles and butterflies, I envy ravens and bumblebees.
I envy all creatures born with the gift of flight.
I achingly long to have wings of my own.
Feathery but strong as steel, iridescent purple, blue and white.
Wings as beautiful and fierce as the Fae of folklore.

Wings that let me fly passed the clouds, towards the moon,
my wingspan shimmering across the onyx sky, a magical streak of light.
If only I could fly above all the mire and muck of life, all of the pain,
above the past and the present, then every what-if would fall away.
Where the wind blows so hard that it dries the tears within,
before I could shed a single one, and only elation could be felt.

To feel those wings expand and retract underneath my skin, a part of my scapulas, my spine, what ecstasy that would be.
To feel the freedom of sheer flight,
of weightlessness with no burdens pulling me back to earth,
what a gift that would be.

If God had created us with wings, I’d be the first to take flight
and the very last to ever land.

— Saskia Lynge / Hour 8