They say you are a winged thing, but wings are fragile as glass and
When they break they leave shards that jut out at odd angles,
Fractured bones that pierce through thin feathery veils of dreams and stardust.
You are not a winged thing, are you? Delicacy is not a part of your constitution. You bend, a river traveling down a channel of change, but never,
ever break. You fly on your own merits. Birds could learn a thing or two from you.
For if you were winged, you would have flown away completely by now, swerving past the squalls of the saturnine soul, avoiding the cages of cold, hearth-less human hearts.
Once we possess you, we do not let go easily. We of dust and rib bones are hungry, greedy things, and for that I am sorry.
Yet you smile at my apology and send lances of light through me, warm and piercing assurances that we are both not without fault, that you can be as false as silk flowers and not half as beautiful. Artificiality comes from stretching oneself too thin, my friend. You are much, much too hard on yourself.
Heed not the call of everyone crying for your shine, giving one. Keep a bit close to your chest as to not fade away and leave this world hollow.
A Proponent of Selfishness.