In the flesh of the wings upon which we strive to soar,

are the thorns of the pride of being human, the pride of man.

Were we truly our spiritual poets to whom these wings belong,

 perhaps we would have the strength to endure, the wisdom to

pick the thorns from each other's wings and wear them safely in

our hearts, and the daring to fly to our dreams.

We chose to be human and wear the thorns of humanity in these fragile

wings instead. We closed our eyes and slept for but a moment it seemed,

casting off our fairy tale flings…our spirits fell from lack of balance and grace

and we no longer soar with our blood stained wings…but perhaps pure love

without the stains and the thorns of the pride of man… can cleanse and heal

these bloodied wounds, and the poets will waken and dream again.