Paper Wings.

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Some have wings of paper, they fold towards the sky.
The wind draws on before them but cannot lift them high.
Some take wings of paper, so beauteous to behold,
With crimson flush and purple, touched with hint of gold.
And rushing o’er some precipice they proudly furl them forth
In arrogance forgetting, they’re paper wings of course.
And crashing to oblivion, their tattered wings do fall
Sadly they discover, they had no faith at all.
Discarding their endeavours they cast their dreams away,
Continue on as insects that crawl all through the day.
But some grow wings of purpose through which the spirit flows.
Pulsating in its courses a transformation goes.
As bloods engage the butterfly to stiffen up those wings,
The wings that once were paper become the spirit’s things,
With flesh and bone and power to lift up to the sky
To see the world below them as heavenward they fly.

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