We need to acknowledge the atrophy of wings.
Edicts complacent keep our sore feet on concrete
but between the pushing of pedals and poking black cells
we work knees, unlatch window panes, and fly.

The soaring is spectacular, the displays hydrate
my dry horrendous spine like rain on crags.
That motion bold towards endless, brings tears
to my sighs, and every aerial flourish does galvanize
my overwrought conviction to join that brilliant climb.

Sadly, we are not even geese in spring.
Our shoulders overburdened by compulsory OT.
We go not gently, but we can't wait for night.
Migration requires fattening, but our obesity
weighs down beating valves and no salve
saves a lonely couch with a tumor of our hide.

Soar,
if that aching cartilage won't bend.
Jump,
when you're too low to descend.
Run,
to get that lift under your hope.
Crawl,
despite all that tonnage of woe.

Shake free this atrophy
and fly to every sky.
Keep high in symphony,
speak the anthem inside.