Gone are the strings,
tying wings to sides.
Gone are the eyes,
and passive aggressive sighs.
Gone is the pseudo flight.
Which carried none of true flights delight.

Up here -
it’s all clear-

For,
up here, we are
no longer love blind.

Looking back from a mile high:
Viewing mountains climbed.
Rivers crossed,
and foes fought.
All for the same one,
who clipped my wings.
Who severed me from the sky.
And put blinders on my eyes.

In resolutions dawn.
Wings shine red.
The strings and blinders that held us back,
now forgotten and dead.