Lazy Designers and Their Wings

So I was design­ing some wings for an illus­tra­tion for project. Thought I’d just snag some already avail­able on Google Images, but some­thing in me made we want to write this, going, “SHUT UP AND READ THIS!”

.…Okay, inner voice. Okay.


You don’t have to be so lazy, Mr Designer,
That you con­sign an Angel with a Swan’s wings.
With ref­er­ences open on each tab,
It’s com­fort­ing to think we have all we need,
But what search engine could ever search
For some­thing that nev­er exist­ed to begin with?

Wings all look alike — some brown, some white –
As they delight to encom­pass the spin of the Earth,
But not all wings rep­re­sent every bird that ascends,
Coz they only ascend to rep­re­sent them­selves.
An angel’s wing is unlike any oth­er wing,
The plumes of which sing in aban­doned gusts
That must be free from the rust of the snow
And the chill of dead, tor­rid sands below.

An angel’s wings are unlike any oth­er pair
That care to curl in whirlpool of the void,
Where they stretch twist in eter­nal night,
Scorching, rebelling with infer­nal flaps
Where Up is down, and right is wrong,
Where the pass­ing of the moment takes too long
For each song that rings at every knell,
“Which way is heav­en, which way is hell.”
An Angel’s Wings are not so hol­low,
An Angel’s Wings are hard to fol­low
Amidst the res­o­nance of dying stars
Where ours is but a frac­tion of a dot,
A twin­kle in our eye, where dreams unborn lie
With the cry of a babe in cra­dle by a song
In its mother’s voice, its father’s embrace
That dares not leave the nest.
And the rest of us still hang by the plume,
That if we fall, it’s with the hori­zons a moment longer,
Because we know, even if we dare not admit,
That our prej­u­diced halls have can­dles still unlit.

But an Angel’s Wings can flap that away,
An Angel’s Wings can sing the gloom away,
Ensuring it’s okay to be vul­ner­a­ble in the air of doubts.
This is why the clouds don’t shy in their thun­der and rain.
Even if the Earth has turned away from the Sun,
Even if the chapel still echoes our own bur­dened voice,
The last thing we need to hear is the sound of our Pencils
Bellowing, “How DARE you not even try?”

So try. The tips are pre­pared to break.
Try. It’s the one sacred thing you can make.
Because wings emerge, not from ref­er­ences of an open tab.
They emerge from your body,
Shirt torn, tor­so bro­ken, lines curled in majesty –
Like an unseen, sacred mark­ing in con­stel­la­tions –
From one dot to anoth­er.


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