I used to be able to fly.
It was incredibly simple,
effortlessly easy.

I used to kiss the sky
with my wings by my side-
two loyal companions
in a treacherous war.

The war had four letters-
four letters; all matter.
Four letters, each carrying
a destructible weapon.

L.I.F.E

They blinded me
and I couldn't tell which one it was,
but one of them had hands.
Merciless hands.
Enemy hands.
Peppered hands.

Ten fingers plucked at my wings-
ripping my feathers out one by one like
plucking eyelashes from a human eye.

I held unlucky pennies.
I breathed the air of space.
I felt the knife of a killer.
I heard nothing-
nothing at all.

But I guess you have to lose your wings in order to understand what it is that truly makes you fly.