Waiting For Wings

Metamorphosis is painful.

The push and pull and aching of skin as the wings threaten to force through, pressing painfully against my outer shell.

I’ve been in a state of flux, wishing and hoping, praying and dreaming of the day

the Pain stops.

I’ve walked and stumbled, reached for a roving cloud as it floated past only to fall and tumble.

My body itches, my skin no longer big enough. It barely covers me,

stretching and taut,

flaking and ugly,

(like a pair of ill fitting pants that swing about the calves and hug snugly at my hips)

exposing me.

I scratch and tug, ripping at my flesh,

waiting for wings

expecting that last painful burst from my body.

Hunched against the cold and the discomfort

I wait…

 

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