A/N: I don't do poetry. But apparently, I don't do poetry unless it's angsty and heart-breaking, in which case I write a horribly depressing, gut-wrenching poem.

He used to have wings.

Beautiful, elegant wings.

Wings that soared through the sky with grace and strength,

Like a horse galloping across a plain.

He used to live above the clouds,

Where freedom and joy blew through the air and into his heart –

His home.

And then one day, his wings were clipped.

His world out of reach, his life trapped on the ground,

His heart drowned in sorrow.

The aching wounds left tough, rugged scars,

And the light vanished from his eyes.

Never again would he be one with his wings,

Breathing in freedom from the sky.

He used to be happy.

He used to have wings.