Inevitable by Wyatt Sugden

I was made with wings, hard and cold. Adorned with
feathers dull not bold. I am but a copy, a fake… I know
nothing. The wind calls, I hear it’s hushed whispers but I
cannot answer; cannot react.

These wings, made from man’s forge, they do not fly;
nothing but copies…
but fakes.
I know it is inevitable, inevitable my dream will
die but oh how I want it;
to fly… to fly…