Winged Creature

As I walked the abandoned streets alone,
And into the dark, eerie dead of night,
I saw a bird flying up and away,
A black silhouette against the moonlight.

It called out to me—a desperate cry—
Of suffering, of sorrow, and despair.
I saw it had a broken, feathered wing;
It could fly and soar no more through the air.

I understood the poor bird’s anguished call,
For we all are wounded and broken, too.
But once we are healed, we can fly once more—
It is from up high that we see the view. 


We are all fragile and delicate things—
But from our downfalls, we emerge with wings.