Wings

I had thought that I was flying,
White-hot wind beneath tanning leather.
Wings spun of sugar.
Delicate and soft.
A respectable reflection, I suppose.
I liked to fly… even in the rain,
A white Pegasus in fading twilight,
Cantering into the thought bubbles of those below,
Whited-out, of course.
You would have cried for me, I’m sure.
And my wings, spun of sugar,
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Those who have never flown,
Know not what it feels to be grounded.