We do too. We have the wings we need. We have the wings that have us fly and soar to wherever we please.
Be it soft feather or smooth membrane or a lash across the back. It's here to keep you warm, need be. Lift you up, need be.
Death has wings, too.
Starting a collection of picture and music inspired poems, they'll be marked by title.
The picture for this one is a young man standing in mist with a bunch of light made arrows protruding out the back of his jacket. He's in no pain whatsoever.
I would link them photos but they're usually sent to me so I don't have an address. I'll work on that though.