Flight

I was born with two wings bordering my spine

as white as a star formed from snow.

Years edged on;

they were picked at, tainted, severed.

I was left flightless with no knowledge of the ground.

I suppose I learned how to cope,

but I can only ignore so many outstretched hands.

How does one cry for help without seeming weak?

How does one ask for assistance without looking fragile?

How does one grow back their feathers and their faith?

And oh, I hate to admit it, to give you more credit than myself,

but I'd be lying if I stated otherwise –

you forced me up off the patch of earth I found solace in

and taught me how to soar above the clouds

while my feet remained firm on the ground,

solid, standing by your forgiving side

right where I should be.