As a being born in the sun,
Should I sit through the night.
rendering out all my light.
A process of radiance to dun.

As a being born with large wings,
Why is it that I’m taxing me of my bling.
Plucking me throughout my back,
Revealing the crookedness of my crack.

Should I just fly on broken wings.
With all of my dreams,
To high up in the clouds with a flowing stream,
Where I could sit for hours feeling the winds, constantly and restlessly enjoying my gleam.

Or will the broken wings,
Drag me to hell.
where the once celestials,
no longer remember heavens smell.
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