To speak of wings is to speak of the soul’s true lineage. The winged require no common soil; Where the earth retreats, the velvet heavens shall prevail. No fields to wander? Then liberty is our vintage. No companion in the flesh? The clouds shall be our kin. Perhaps in this, the avian truth is undisputed... But what of us? What of the heart’s silent manor? Bound to the cobblestones, we seem shadows at rest. And yet, we possess wings. Wings tailored from the finest obsidian silk. One does not fly, if one trusts the senses alone... And yet, we possess wings. Wings to navigate the midnight. Those wings are not fashioned from feather or down, But forged in the fires of truth, of honour, and of ancient fate. For some, from the loyalty found in a clandestine love, For some, from the eternal longing for a shore yet unseen. Wings... bespoke... and eternal.
