He came from shade but dreamt of sun,
A silent thing with wings too small.
Each morning found him halfway gone—
Each night he broke his quiet fall.

He watched the sky, its golden thread,
And thought it meant to pull him in.
His mother warned, “You’ll end up dead,”
But still he tried, again and again.

He reached, though thinner grew the air,
And stars, he thought, would answer back.
But they just watched him drifting there—
A speck upon a silver track.

She told him once, “It isn’t yours,
That light you chase, it cannot feel.”
But boys don’t hear through closing doors,
They only learn through what won’t heal.

His wings wore down like woven lace,
He rose until the dark turned blue.
The flame, it never knew his face—
But still, he swore its warmth was true.

And when he fell, they called it flight.
He burned, and called the burning love.
No echo followed into night—
Just ash that drifted high above.