بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ
a slave, he was born with wings, so he sought to fly, reached out with his palms, almost caught the clouds in the sky, right up until he saw His sun, then he went blind. didn't know they'd burned up, thought the road would be fine, used to the heat, like so many trials of bygone times, but the price - the price caught up to him, when blinded and wingless, his Creator showed him what he thought was his provision, turned into yet another mirage, of need turned by test into whim judged needless, so extracted from his senses without warning or anesthetic, open-cavity surgery straight down from his skull to his chest to his pelvis, carried on the corridors of lymph now turned against him, the loss of his reason and desire and soul, merely byproducts of a fission only his Creator could fathom and break from his mold.
later the slave would learn, he wasn't flesh but wax, living and experience not quite gifts, but for the growing a tax, taken and stripped whether in pieces or snips, whole or partially-dripped bloodless or bloodied by violent methods, these were no pretty scenes for the one who had, of himself, nothing left. once, he'd spoken of his wings, almost a dream it seemed, to have such elegant organs growing from such a menial being, but then he wasn't self-created and couldn't quite articulate the meaning and poetry of illusions and realisms interchangeable as light bulbs would be for a muse in a museum, but recall his blindness and so he'd never know the true worth of his Muse while eyes were shuttered and closeted inside the graves of his visions, wings burned off...or so that's what he thought
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