The sky looks like it was painted on
with the brush strokes of angel wings.
I want to make wings
so I can fly closer
but all I have is paper
and I know that would stick to me,
a second skin weighing me
rather than wings lifting me.
The sun is rising and burning
the clouds and light and,
my desire for ascension.
I remain on the ground
feet planted with eyes to the sky,
a head full of dreams,
and a wish to paint skies with the angels.